Nuclear Attraction
by ChequeRoot
Summary: Before Waylon Smithers Jr. ever worked for C. M. Burns, his father was the tycoon's friend and trusted companion in more ways than one. This story takes us through the life of Waylon Smithers Sr, from the time he first started working for Burns, to the final days of his life. Learn what really happened in those years they worked together.
1. Chapter 1

Standard Disclaimer. I do not own the Simpsons, C. M. Burns, Waylon Smithers Sr, or any other characters from the Simpsons Universe This is a non-profit piece of fan fiction.

Warnings: mild profanity, adult themes, slash.

* * *

Author's Notes:

 _This might best be described as a meta-fanfiction. I took inspiration not only from the Simpsons themselves, but from the bits and pieces other artists and authors have put together regarding the relationship between Burns and Waylon Sr. I've intended this story as an homage to all the other fans of BurnSmithersSr pairing. If you see something that might be slightly familiar, it is deliberate, and meant with the greatest of respect. To all you other BurnsSmithersSr shippers out there, this one's for you!_

 _With that out of the way, please sit back, relax, and enjoy!_

 _~ Muse_

* * *

 **NOW**

A tidy maroon station wagon pulled into the driveway of a neat little house in the new suburb of West Springfield in mid-November. It was evening, just about dinner time.

The driver stepped out, a man in a grey suit, white shirt, and red tie. He was in his early middle age, though he'd experienced significant balding for his age. His mouse-grey hair was lighter at the temples, thickest in the back. A pair of round-rimmed glasses framed his expressive eyes. His mouth was drawn tight in thought. Absent-mindedly he rubbed a hand over his lips and moustache.

He took his leather briefcase from the back seat before locking the car, and headed inside.

Dinner used to be waiting on the table, but these nights the kitchen was cold. No matter, he thought, setting his briefcase on the table and putting a can of soup to heat. His wife was probably in the bedroom with the new baby. She hadn't been feeling well as of late. Baby blues, perhaps. The man was accustomed to making his own meals.

He walked quietly towards the bedroom calling, "Roberta?"

He found his wife, curled up under the covers of their bed. The baby was dreaming peacefully in his bassinet next to her. Waylon bent over, and kissed Roberta's cheek, before checking on the little boy. Waylon Jr. was sleeping, a tiny fist curled up at his mouth, snoring softly. His father smiled, gently stroking the baby's check with the back of his finger. Everyone said how much the baby looked like him, even his wife.

Waylon Sr. smiled as he took off his loafers and jacket. He had a beautiful family. A strong, healthy baby boy, and a wife who was his best friend. The only regret he had in his life was of the private, personal sort. He tried to keep that from affecting his family. Occasionally Roberta would remark on how distant he seemed towards her.

 _I know you love me_ , she'd admit, hands at her sides, _but sometimes it seems like there's something you're not telling me._

In those moments, Waylon Sr. would sweep her up in his arms, arms around her waist, and plant a tender kiss on her cheek. _Something I'm not telling you?_ he'd coo. _Why yes, I haven't told you how much I love you yet today;_ and he'd kiss her again. She'd laugh, pretend to struggle, and the moment would pass. Or mostly pass. As of late, there was a lingering flicker of doubt in her eyes.

Initially, Waylon Sr. chalked it up to simply fatigue from new motherhood. His son's birth had been uneventful, but Roberta seemed to be struggling afterwards. The baby was the proverbial "happy baby" who watched their faces with delight, and hardly cried except when he needed something.

The other week, Waylon had sat down with Roberta, and encouraged her to talk to her doctor. _Perhaps he can give you something to pick you up a bit_ , he pushed gently. He wasn't sure if she'd taken his advice. These past few weeks had become increasingly difficult. Waylon found himself coming home from work, then tending to his wife and his son in equal parts.

 _You've got to take care of yourself, Roberta_ , he chided. _You need to be strong for the baby._

Roberta had responded with uncharacteristic harshness _. I'm taking care of this baby just fine, Waylon Joseph_ , she snapped. _You worry about yourself_. With that, she swept out of the room, Waylon Jr. in her arms, and stormed out to the back porch. Waylon Sr. had put his head in his hands, and closed his eyes. Life, it seemed, always found a way to become complicated. Even when one did everything right.

These memories played through his mind.

He stroked his wife's hair. "There's tomato soup, and grilled cheese sandwiches in the kitchen. Please eat something tonight." She made a mummer of a response. "I'll feed Waylon," he added, giving her another kiss. He scooped the baby out of the bassinet, and headed back to the kitchen.

* * *

 **NOW**

"Waylon! Waylon Smithers, my old chap, I dare say there's a loss of spring in your step today," remarked Monty chipperly.

"I've had a lot on my mind," replied Waylon pensively, falling into step with his business partner.

"Oh ho, well I'm sure of that! How is the missus doing, and the child? Any news?"

Waylon smiled despite himself. "Well, they're day older each than they were yesterday when you asked," he replied smirking.

Monty tilted his head back and laughed. "Oh there's that jaunty reply I was waiting for." Then he became serious again. "But tell me, Smithers, is anything amiss?"

"I'm not sure, Monty. I'm truly not sure."

The two men walked in silence through the main corridor of the newly finished nuclear generation station. "I daresay, we'll have this place up and running at capacity within a few short weeks," Monty said, steepling his fingers. "I loved those additions you made: the office complex, the guard house," he interlaced his fingers. "They make for a right proper plant. Have you finished going through the applications?"

Waylon held the door to their shared office open. "I've gotten it narrowed down."

The office was a modest space, still in the old complex. They'd be moving into the new office building when the plant came online in a few months. The room had several filing cabinets and boxes, in the preparation for the move. A few utilitarian windows ran along the back wall, affording light and fresh air when the weather permitted. In the far corner, they'd moved in a water cooler, coffee pot, and later had a small refrigerator brought up as well. There was a table along the adjacent wall, covered in final drafts and plans.

When they'd first moved in, Monty and Waylon had pushed two desks together in the center, facing each other. This allowed them to pass paperwork back and forth, without the hassle of getting up. Efficiency in all things.

"Here's a few I've narrowed down. I'd say they're executive material." Waylon reached a stack of papers over to Monty's side.

Monty reached for them, and their fingertips brushed over one another's. Monty looked up, met Waylon's eyes. He felt his cheeks grow warm. He blushed, and looked away as he accepted the documents. This happened sometimes. Same thing with their shared foot space under the desks. Sometimes it was Monty who blushed and looked down, other times it was Waylon who shyly averted his gaze. It wasn't something either man talked about, lest discussing it make things too real.

Monty coughed and leafed through the papers. "Well, they seem smarter than the average mule, and this fellow here sounds twice as hardworking. Let's make a go of him. You said you called all their references?"

"Spoke to each one personally, Monty."

"Excellent. Well, if he's good enough for you, he's definitely good enough for me." Monty passed the paper back, and Waylon added it to his call-back pile.

* * *

 **THEN**

"Professor Burns," a breathless voice called out.

Montgomery Burns heard footsteps rapidly approaching. The frantic patter of loafers on marble. He sighed inwardly. He hoped it wasn't one of his students trying to protest a grade. He wasn't in the mood for such things. Burns had been subjected to a very bad week. He ran a hand through his mid-length and rapidly greying hair. If he weren't completely grey by the end of this year it would be a no small miracle.

He muttered a brief prayer of sorts. _Don't let me kill this poor bastard in front of the faculty._

Burns turned halfway, looking over his shoulder, and felt a slight wash of relief. It was his old student, and former laboratory coordinator: Waylon Smithers. Whatever Smithers had, at least it wouldn't be petty concerns. The man had graduated last semester, and was already teaching a few courses himself.

"Oh, what is it now?" Burns asked with only mild acidity. "I'm late. Walk with me."

Smithers fell into step beside Burns, trying to smooth his thinning hair with one hand.

"I've been thinking," he began, readjusting the satchel slung over his shoulder, "we could still make use of some of our records from the lab. A tragedy that we lost so much research in the attack.

"'We?'"

"Well, you, Professor," Smithers corrected himself, feeling his teeth bite down at the end of each word. His contribution had been substantial, if underappreciated.

Burns took no notice of his former student's ire. "Indeed, _me_. Pray continue."

"Well, in my spare time I'd been doing a few side studies in radiobiology. I've also been accepted as a graduate teaching assistant for the Nuclear Engineering and Architecture program. The radiobiology was just a hobby, trying to see if I couldn't improve on some of your specimens." He paused to switch the satchel to his other shoulder.

Burns narrowed his eyes. "You were tampering my precious germs? Blasting their harmless little bodies with your malevolent radiation, eh?"

"Well, yes and no," replied Smithers. The man straightened his back and looked Burns straight in the eye.

"Professor Burns," he began, "Nuclear engineering is only going up."

"Your point?"

"Sir, in your lectures you talked about your great grandfather's atom smashing plant, splitting them by hand with a hammer and anvil-"

Burns held up a hand to halt the younger man. "We'll have to continue this later, _Mister_ Smithers. As you can see, we've arrived at my _full_ lecture hall, and I am already late." With that, Burns turned and dismissed the younger man.

* * *

 **THEN**

In his lecture, Burns mind wandered. Even as he presented his lecture on biochemical engineering, the idea of atomic potential had lodged in his mind. Nuclear energy. Perhaps the future lay in atoms, not bugs. Burns was never a man to stay in one mood for long, be it wrath or joy.

He concluded his lecture, and assigned a surprise essay to celebrate his good mood. Back in his office, Burns pulled out the files and few samples that had survived the "antibiotic bomb" some terrorist sect had detonated in his laboratory.

In a glass incubator, several petri dishes were stacked in isolation cubes. He took one out and examined it thoughtfully. On his desk a newspaper was open to an article about the growing commercial nuclear energy field.

Burns held the petri dish in his hand, leering over the fuzzy agar gel. "Ah, poor, little bacteria, the strong few who survived in the face of adversity." He waved a finger at the dish. "Well, my small friends, nothing lasts forever. I have a new plan now."

He picked up his phone and dialed a number he knew quite well: "Screaming Monkey Medical Research Center? Yes, I have an offer I don't think you can refuse."

Under the cover of darkness, the last of his precious little bacteria and home-grown viruses were quietly boxed up and transferred in a cash deal… for a _great deal_ of cash. Montgomery Burns believed one should never look back. As his grandfather had taught him, family, religion and friendship were three demons one had to slay in order to be successful in business.

Attachment to anything, even something as trifling as a microbe, could muddy up everything.


	2. Chapter 2

**THEN**

Montgomery Burns sat alone in the library at his manor, burning the midnight oil (literally; it was whale oil). He poured over the diagrams and schematics of various nuclear systems. He drummed his slender fingers on the table, and ran a hand through his mostly grey hair. How did that happen? It seemed to be changing from brown to silver in a matter of weeks after the lab incident. Stress, perhaps. At least he didn't have a receding hairline like Smithers. Going bald? What a curse that would be!

He had several ideas for the contraction project, but he needed a second set of eyes before he even considered anything further. There were several tracts of land along the western side of the Springfield River, all of them available.

Land deals and business transactions were old hat to Burns. He assembled his team, complete with surveyors, and sent them to examine the potential sites in detail.

Under his left hand was a long list of regulations and land requirements. It made his head spin. Just before dawn, he rose from his desk, shrugged on his pea coat, and went outside.

He walked slowly in the gardens behind his mansion. His groundskeepers maintained a wide variety of flowering trees and seasonal blooms. The sun was just starting to crest in the east, casting golden spears across the manicured landscape.

He walked silently, lost in thought. Another sleepless night. Fortunately, at his age, sleep could still be considered a luxury. Money and progress never slept. If Burns had his choice, neither would he. Sleep got in his way.

Beyond the veranda, hedge maze, and formal gardens the remainder of his estate alternated between manicured lawns, fields, and old forest. The gardeners had been busy last fall. Apparently one of the east lawns had been saturated with daffodil bulbs. The yellow, trumpet-like flowers rising up were a surprise to him. _I hope they don't expect me to pay them extra_ , he mused as he regarded the scene. Admittedly, Burns rarely saw most of his staff, and was not always aware of the finer details, especially trivial ones such as plantings. He'd given his servants strict orders to be neither seen, nor heard. The only person Burns cared to have any contact with was his head steward, and loyal majordomo, Johan. He gave orders to Johan, and everything from cooking, to cleaning, to tending his kennels was managed.

Burns liked the feeling of being alone. He relished in the solitude away from the inane prattle of the peasants. For most of his ventures, Burns kept everyone at the end of a long, and preferably pointed stick.

He did however, acknowledge the value of the common man as a resource. A necessary cog in the great machine of progress.

That was one of the biggest hitches with his nuclear plans, he had to admit. He needed a second set of eyes, someone with familiarity in the field, to go over his figures and prints.

That Smithers fellow, he could be just the tool Burns needed to hammer his plans into reality. The lad did have his academic background in nuclear rigmarole.

These days, the government was so uppity. After the war they wanted to crush the business man. Gone were the days of maverick, free-market construction projects. These days, everything had to be so precise, with all these redundant "safety" features – _expensive features_ , he scoffed. He much preferred the good old shops of old, where it was common sense, not so-called "safety features" that kept workers alive.

He rolled his eyes at the thought. _If they're too imbecilic to stay alive on their jobs, I'd consider that natural selection. I'd be doing humanity a service._

The government, unfortunately, no longer saw it that way.

Burns concluded his early walk through the daffodil field. A bite of toast, some coffee, and he'd be sharp as a tack for his morning students. _The youth these days_ , he thought, curling his lip slightly, _lazy sheep, the lot of them! They miss the best part of the day slumbering mindlessly_.

Well, he'd have to suffer them; and he'd make sure they suffered because of him. It almost didn't matter now. By his choice, his days teaching as Springfield University were down to single digits.

* * *

 **THEN**

Professor Burns stormed into the tiny closet Smithers called an office. "You there, Smithers!" he snapped, pointing a long finger at the younger man.

Smithers leapt up with a start, overturning his chair, and knocking a half-full cup of coffee off his desk. In one fluid motion, he snatched the tests he'd been grading out of danger, and caught the coffee mug in his other hand. He thrust the toe of his left foot under the rung of his chair to keep it from crashing to the ground. The coffee sloshed perilously close to the rim, then settled.

Papers in one hand, coffee in the other, and balanced on one foot, Smithers stared levelly at Burns. "Ah, so what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Professor," he asked tersely.

Burns appeared completely nonplussed. He looked around for a place to sit. Finding none, he sat down on Smithers' recently cleared desk.

Smithers sighed inwardly. He straightened the chair, put his papers upon it, and stood there, mug held in both hands.

"I've a proposition for you, Smithers."

Smithers looked levelly at Burns, trying to guess where this was going. Smithers had spent enough time working in Professor Burns' lab as an undergraduate. A proposition could be anything from a sterling recommendation to scrubbing petri dishes. When he'd been a lowly student trying to earn some pocket change from his work study program, he would eagerly take on such assignments. Now as a teaching fellow at Springfield University, he was much less interested in what the capricious man sitting on his desk might have to offer.

Burns steepled his fingers and crossed his legs at the ankles. He rocked back and forth, eyeing Smithers with anticipation. "Come now, man. Say yes!"

"Yes to what?" Smithers asked cautiously, looking for a place to set his mug.

"To my proposition, of course!" exclaimed Burns, throwing his arms wide. His fingertips almost touched the walls of the miniature room.

Smithers bent down, set the cup of cold coffee under his desk and straightened up. "Well, _Professor_ , you've yet to tell me what your proposition is exactly." He folded his arms across his chest. Lord, this man could be irritating at times. At least now, Smithers reasoned, his future at the university no longer depended on any grades from Burns.

"Ask me about my 'atom mill!'" Burns prodded. "Last week? Two weeks ago? Was it a month? Bah, regardless, you started to say something about the future of nuclear energy. Alas, I had to regretfully part company with you-"

 _Hmph, I remember something slightly different_ , Smithers thought silently.

"-But now I have the time to listen to whatever you have to say. So," Burns prompted, reclasping his fingers and leaning closer to Smithers, "ask me. Say 'Professor Burns, what is your proposition? Tell me about your atom mill.'"

Smithers took a deep breath and considered his choices. The best chance of him actually getting his desk back was in hearing Burns out. He also felt like if he heard the phrase 'atom mill' used one more time, he would probably lose his patience. Smithers' father had always taught him and his brothers a simple rule in life and business. _Play the game, boys_ , he heard his father's voice in his head. Sometimes you just have to play the game. He'd go along with Burns for now.

Arms still folded across his chest, Smithers looked down at the man perched on his desk. Burns was grinning like some sort of elven cheshire cat. "So, Professor Burns, what is your proposition? Please tell me more about your… nuclear power station." He tried to keep his voice from sounding too heavily laced with sarcasm.

He must've succeeded. Or, if Burns noticed, he ignored it.

"How wonderful of you to ask, Mister Smithers!" Burns exclaimed theatrically. "I have been thinking that nuclear engineering appears to be on the upswing!"

 _Do tell_ , thought Smithers in irritation, but he held his tongue.

"I've decided to stay true to the Burns heritage! Cutting edge technology has always been at the forefront of our empire! Using the latest and greatest comes naturally to us. Harnessing the power of the atom! I've decided to invest in this new-fangled electricity spewing-"

("Ngh, Professor, please don't say 'atom mill' again," Smithers groaned under his breath.)

"-Thermonuclear generating station," Burns finished. "Yes, a nuclear power plant, right here in Springfield. It will be splendid. Safe, clean, moderately expensive energy for all." Burns leaned even closer, prompting Smithers to take a step back. "And here's where you come in. Ooh, there'll be a tidy incentive for you, good man, if you say yes."

Smithers waited, keeping his hands tucked under his arms.

"I need someone to help me design and run such a thing! You've got your degree in Nuclear Engineering and Architecture. Now, really, how many opportunities are you going to have to use that in the real world? Why, it's practically a degree that screams 'I shall teach forever, because there is no other use for my skills' and, well, we wouldn't want that; would we?"

"Ah yes," said Smithers, deadpan. "That was exactly what I was thinking when I graduated."

"What else could you possibly do with it?"

"Well, I was hoping to get a government job. Perhaps contracted architect or inspector."

"Bah," Burns twirled a hand. "There's no money in government work! The real money's in the private sector. I am a veteran, remember? I would know. Now," he continued, "I've got several sites selected, but I need your eyes and brain to make it happen."

Smithers uncrossed his arms, and ran a hand over his face. "So you're saying you want me to quit my teaching job, and design your nuclear plant?"

"Exactly," nodded Burns enthusiastically. "I will make it well worth your while."

Smithers suddenly felt the need to sit down. Everything seemed to be happening too quickly. He lifted the papers off his chair and collapsed into it. Professor Burns was the richest man in Springfield, if not the entire state.

A job with Burns could provide young Smithers with the means to get himself well-established in the nuclear industry. Not to mention, designing and overseeing the construction of a nuclear generating station would jump his potential career forward by years, if not decades. Teaching was a way to pay some of his bills, but it wasn't something he wanted to do for the rest of his life.

Burns pulled an envelope out from within his jacket.

"All you have to do is sign this," he smiled toothily, handing the envelope over to Smithers.

Waylon Smithers took the letter and opened it. Inside was an already drawn up employment contract, stating terms and benefits. When his eyes reached the line about salary, his jaw nearly hit the floor. Smithers was ever so glad he was sitting down.

Burns pulled out a fountain pen.

"Sign it now, and you'll be set for life. But do it quickly, because if it's not you, I _will_ find someone else."

"Can I have some time to think this over," Smithers asked.

Burns' smile vanished. "No." He replied, his tone dropping from warm, to sub-zero. "You will either sign this now and quit your job, or you'll be stuck forever teaching these boorish, slothful and licentious youths." Burns stood up, steepled his fingers, and glared eye to eye with Smithers.

"You wouldn't want that now, would you, Smithers."

It really wasn't a question.

 _Oh, what would my father think of this game?_ Smithers thought balefully. The offer, however, was too good to refuse. He met Burns' eyes straight on. "You have yourself an architect, _Mister_ Burns," he said solemnly; then he signed his old life away.


	3. Chapter 3

**NOW**

"Tell me something, Waylon," Monty began out of the blue, "how are things with your wife lately?"

The two men had decided to winter walk down to the shore of the Springfield River, just downhill of the power plant. Though cold, the snow had been late in coming that year. Monty wore his old black pea coat. Waylon had gone with a down parka. Under the shadow of the recently completed cooling towers, they paused to take in the still view.

Waylon shook his head. "I finally convinced her to see the doctor." He put his hands in his pockets and looked across the river. "He declared that she has a nervous condition, and prescribed electroshock therapy at the hospital. She's going to start treatment next week. Depending on how the first week goes, they might let her stay home, or they might be keeping her." Waylon pursed his lips. "I don't know what I can do…"

Monty listened quietly.

"You know, before Waylon was born, I saw her reading a book, _Every Woman's Standard Medical Guide._ There's a chapter on nerves. It says the arrival of a new baby may be a signal for the beginnings of nervous tension in the sensitive, anxious woman." Waylon continued to stare across the river. "Roberta was never sensitive or anxious. Not that I'd call it." _Maybe this is all because of me_ , Waylon thought pensively.

He lapsed into silence.

Monty stepped in and put an arm around Waylon's shoulder. "Come now, man. Perhaps the treatment will work wonders, and she'll be back; fit as a fiddle in no time?"

"And maybe she'll be institutionalized forever," Waylon muttered softly. He closed his eyes and tilted his head in Monty's direction.

Monty sighed and leaned in towards his long-time partner.

Their foreheads met, touching gently.

In the distance, against the grey sky, a crow cawed once.

 _The omen of change_ , Waylon thought heavily, _messenger of death_.

Head to head with Monty, he took a deep breath, and tried to regain his composure.

"Now see here, my man," Monty began softly, "If there's anything I can do for you and your family, believe me I will. You name it, and it will be done." Monty took a step back, one arm still on Waylon's shoulder. He grasped Waylon's other shoulder and turned to face him straight on.

"Look at me," Monty ordered, not unkindly.

Waylon raised his eyes.

"You're a good man, Waylon Smithers," Monty began slowly. The intensity in his blue eyes was almost overwhelming. "I promise you, I will do everything in my power to take care of you and those you love. No harm will ever come to you so long as I am here."

Waylon dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief. "You mean that, Monty?"

Montgomery Burns tightened his grip on Waylon's shoulders. "Always."

* * *

 **THEN**

"You want a moat around it?"

"Of course I want a moat," Burns was fairly yelling now. "Dash it, man! How am I supposed to keep the riff-raff out without some sort of barrier?"

Smithers tapped his pen on the drawing table in mild irritation. "Why don't we go with a nice chainlink fence. Chainlink's all the rage. Very modern." He didn't bother erasing the large blue circle Burns had just drawn on his plans. Smithers would just redo them later. It was easier to let Burns have his way than it was to keep trying to correct the tycoon's "improvements."

"A fence? Are you daft? How on earth will a drawbridge work with a _fence_!?"

Smithers smiled patronizingly.

"We could have a guard house instead. With gates to control who goes in and out."

Burns' face split into a grin. "With turrets and machine guns?"

Smithers glanced at the prints. _Machine guns? Probably not_. "I was thinking more along the lines of tire spikes, and barbed-wire," he replied, straight-faced as ever.

Burns relented. "Oh, very well. That will have to do." He glanced down at the print. "But we'd still have the attack dogs, right?" he asked hopefully.

Now it was Smithers' turn to grin. "Absolutely! I'm thinking something like Doberman pinchers. Lean, fast, and ill-tempered." He gave Burns a wicked smile.

"Ah, I knew there was something I liked about you, Smithers!" Burns crowed. "I know a fabulous kennel in Germany: Zwinger vom Beisen Gesichtsausdruck!"

Smithers paused, translating in his head. "Does that mean 'Kennel vom Bitey-Face'," he asked tentatively.

"Ah, close enough," replied Burns. "I'll have Johan contact them first thing in their morning." Burns rubbed his hands together in delight. "Oh, Smithers, this will be the best atom- er, nuclear power plant, yet!"

* * *

 **THEN**

Burns had invited Smithers to join him for dinner; and tried to hide his disappointment when the man declined.

Smithers explained he had promised his fiancée a nice evening at Le Mason Expensive downtown. _I didn't even know he was engaged_ , Burns thought reflectively, as he sat alone at the head of his stately dinner table. Surprise, surprise.

What left Burns even more flabbergasted was the fact he wasn't entirely happy to hear that. Somehow, he liked the idea of Smithers being unattached. Single men, in Burns' opinion, made much better employees. They didn't get distracted with the trappings of family and all that bullroar. They time could be utterly devoted to the task at hands.

 _Like me_ , Burns thought. His time was all his. No one holding him back, or dragging him down. No attachments. A solitary apex financial predator in the wilds of a capitalist economy! Exactly like nature intended.

Speaking of nature…

"Johan," Burns bellowed, "Get in here!"

The tall man immediately appeared from the kitchen, dressed as always in his black suit, but wearing a white chef's apron. He moved silently over to his master's side. "There you are, what took you so long? Ah, never mind it. Johan, when will the new _hunden_ be arriving?"

"Zey will be here within the fortnight, Herr Burns," Johan replied is his deceptively soft Germanic voice.

"Ah, wonderful. Well that gives me time for one last fox hunt with the old pack before we… do whatever it is with dogs when we don't need them anymore."

Johan nodded once, silently.

"Have the kennel master get them prepared, get my hunting vestments out, and ready my blunderbuss. I'm feeling lucky tonight," he quipped. _And I have nothing else to do with my time tonight_ , he thought sourly, thinking of the guest he didn't have.

Johan nodded once, again, and left as silently as he arrived. After he was gone, Burns allowed himself a small shudder. Johan might be phenomenal at what he did, but at times he could be a tad eerie.

Leaving the remains of his dinner on the table for the servants to clean up, Burns rose and pushed his chair back. He strode purposefully from the dining hall, tossing his napkin carelessly over his shoulder as he left.

Upstairs in his bedchamber, his fox hunting attire had been laid out on his bed. Cream riding pants, black boots, white undershirt and red jacket, complete with black cap. His riding crop lay beside the clothes. Burns dressed hastily, donning a pair of house slippers for the moment. He'd put on his hunting boots when he got to the kennel.

He slapped the riding crop across his palm twice, and smiled; both the sound and the sensation appealed to his edgier side. Ah, the delightful form and function of a well-made leather crop! Such things, he hoped, would never go out of style.

His horse was already waiting at the stables. His horseman helped him put on the high black riding boots, then assisted him into the saddle. The horseman handed Burns his archaic firearm, which Burns slung into a holster across his back.

Early spring never allowed for a light evening. Already the sun was dipping behind the western edge of his estate, casting lengthening shadows across the lawns. Fortunately though, the full moon would be rising shortly.

An evening fox hunt. A more challenging affair, though perhaps not traditional. It always got the old blood flowing. He sat straight in the saddle, reins and crop gathered in his hands. "Cast the hounds!" he exclaimed, throwing a hand to the forest.

With that, the foxhounds were released. Almost immediately, they caught scent, and baying, took off. Burns spurred his horse forward, and gave chase.

* * *

 **THEN**

Like so many of his hunts, he returned without a trophy. The fox darted quickly into its burrow, leaving not so much as a single hair exposed. Burns holstered his firearm back over his shoulder, clucked his tongue, and turned the horse back. He whistled shrilly, calling the hounds off their quarry.

His blood was still pounding in his ears from the spirited chase moments before, but now he felt oddly serene. Even though his veins still throbbed, there was a sense of peace, an almost sleepy calm that always seemed to come after such an exertive act.

Burns guided his horse leisurely through the overgrowth. The world had taken on a silver cast to it under the rapidly rising moon. The only sounds were the thudding of his horse's hooves, and the steamy pantings of the fox hounds as they trotted at his feet.

He let his mind wander as he rode. A pity Smithers was indisposed for the evening. Burns would've enjoyed companionship tonight. He thought of Smithers' face, the hazel eyes that seemed always on the verge of making some delightfully sharp and mirthful retort. The way Smithers' lips would purse and tighten when he held back a smile, or a laugh.

 _Good thing he does too_ , Burns thought, imagining those lips. _No one would dare laugh at me!_ He snorted and looked up at the moon. What would you do if he did, a tiny voice in his head asked.

 _Oh, I'd find a way to shut his irreverent, impish mouth_ , Burns thought back at himself, giving his horse's sides a slight tap with the spurs.

The mare obediently picked up her pace. The hounds, winded but enthusiastic, matched speed.

Images of Waylon Smithers smiling in a warm and teasing way swam though his mind. _Damnable, frolicsome youth, with his fake self-effacement_ , Burns thought darkly. _He knows wit and well what he's playing at._

The little voice inside his head continued its small, but insistent nudging. He's not afraid of you, Monty, it admonished him.

Burns clenched his teeth. "Then I'll _give_ him a reason," he snarled softly into the night air. His horse flicked her ears back at the unexpected, hostile tone from her previously mute rider.

The small voice gave a peal of laughter.

I don't think you could! The voice chided gaily. All you'd do is encourage him!


	4. Chapter 4

**THEN**

"Professor Burns, I mean Mister Burns will be submitting the first draft of the plant to the Atomic Energy Commission this week," Smithers said enthusiastically, reaching for another roll.

Across the table, his fiancée Roberta Latante smiled, but her face hinted at some reservation. "What about all those atomic weapons?" she asked.

Smithers raised an eyebrow. "What atomic weapons?"

"The ones that could be made right here at the Springfield plant?"

Smithers smiled and reached for her well-manicured hands. "Don't worry about that, my love. There is a world of difference between nuclear weapons, and nuclear energy." He ran his thumbs over her fingers, pausing when he hit the engagement ring on her left hand. They both looked down at the ring for a moment, a tiny square diamond set in a dainty gold band. It was the best he could afford after he graduated university.

"This is a project for the people," Smithers said, still watching her hands. "Mister Burns is paying me more than I ever dreamed I'd be making. We'll be able to have a nice house, with a front _and_ a back yard." He paused, then looked up. "I'll be able to buy you a _real_ ring," he added apologetically.

Roberta lifted her hands out of his, and played with her ring absent-mindedly. She regarded her fiancé thoughtfully, her dark eyes and heart-shaped face reminding him of a delicate owl. "I don't care about getting a bigger ring. It's the thought that matters to me." She paused. "The idea of you working around something so dangerous worries me, Waylon."

Smithers smiled reassuringly. "My love, I'll be safely away from anything harmful. The rooms are shielded, the reactor is contained. Why, we've even got lead suits to wear if anything ever did go wrong (not that it will). This nuclear power plant will provide safe, clean energy to Springfield. It will revitalize our little town, put us on the map. The money that comes in will go to improve roads, schools…" he beamed at her. "This is the start of something big, and we're going to be a part of it."

Roberta regarded him with her shy, serious expression, but her eyes were warm. "We," she said, a smile forming in spite of herself.

Smithers nodded. "Yes, we. You, me, and the family we'll have together." He winked at her. "A small family, right? Only six or seven."

She laughed and pushed his hand away. "Are we talking about children or dogs?"

He moved around the table to kiss her, careful to avoid leaning over their food. "Why, children, of course! But we'll just start with one, and see how that goes."

Roberta pretended to move away as he kissed her on the cheek. She giggled as she did. "I like the sounds of that; one to start with."

Smithers gave her a second wink. "Unless it's twins!" he added playfully, tilting his head.

Roberta made a shooing gesture with her hands. "Waylon Joseph, you are an incorrigible rouge!" she teased.

He sat back down in his chair. "Guilty as charged, m'lady; guilty as charged."

* * *

 **THEN**

"It's been approved!" Burns was practically leaping with delight in Smithers' modest kitchen-turned-office.

Smithers' home was a small apartment, big enough for one person to live and work if he didn't mind doubling up on the function of some rooms. The kitchen was the sole eating area though now it had become an office. There was a living room, bedroom, and bath. It was a tad small for celebration dances, but Smithers didn't mind. He shared the same feeling of elation as the future magistrate for the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant.

While undoubtably pleased to see Burns, he was initially taken back by how unexpected the man's arrival had been. Smithers had been working on some reviews when a frantic pounding came from the front door.

 _Keep your shirt on_ , he grumbled at the interruption, expecting yet another salesman. When he opened the door, C. Montgomery Burns exploded into the room, waistcoat billowing like a cape, an official looking document in one hand.

He grabbed Smithers by the lapels and hauled him face-to-face. "It's been approved," he shouted ecstatically, "Oh frabjous day!" He let go and spun in a circle, arms outstretched.

Smithers ducked nonchalantly to avoid being hit across the face.

("How did you even know where I live?" he asked in mild bewilderment.)

"We've got the green light to begin site preparation and initial construction!" Burns said, finally coming to a stop. "Your brilliant plans, and my brilliant billions have been put to work. Come, you, we have to celebrate!"

Burns stopped, and grew serious for a moment. He took account of his surroundings. "Good lord, Smithers, is this where you work?"

"Well, it's my home; so yes," replied Smithers guardedly, not sure where Burns was going with that train of thought.

"This little hovel is an unsuitable study for your genius. I have an entire laboratory back at the manor that I'm hardly using. We should set you up there. Everything you need, right at your fingertips, eh Smithers?" he gave Smithers a playful jab in the arm with an uncomfortable, pointy elbow.

"That may be," Smithers replied, rubbing his arm, "but what if I needed something here?"

Burns scoffed. "What could _you_ possibly need _here_? And if you did, I could send one of my couriers to procure it for you."

Smithers rubbed a hand thoughtfully over his chin. "I suppose I can't really see an argument against that."

"Outstanding. I'll send a team to box your possessions and have them taken to my personal laboratory."

"Eh, not all my possessions, I hope," asked Smithers somewhat warily.

Burns chuckled. "Oh no, not at all my good man. What? Did you think I was asking you to move in with me! Hah, that would be a jolly good lark, would it not?"

Smithers made a "so-so" gesture with his hand, which Burns appeared to ignore.

"No," Burns continued. "You may happily stay here in your drab little quarters for as long as you desire. I'd hardly tear you away from such a Spartan, if neatly kept, existence."

Smithers chuckled. "Very well, then." He stacked his papers neatly on the table. "Now, as I recall you said something about celebrating?"


	5. Chapter 5

**THEN**

"So glad you could join me for dinner this time," Burns remarked glibly as he drove his Stutz Bearcat along Mammon Lane to his estate. Smithers packed himself in to the seat as tightly as he could. Burns had a sort of racer's flair to his driving technique, cutting corners a wee bit sharper than Smithers felt comfortable with. For all his speed, and sharp handling, they arrived without incident at the front gates of Burns Manor.

As the car approached, the gates swung open automatically.

"Behold the power of electricity," Burns remarked cheerfully.

Smithers had never been to Burn's home before, and found himself taken back by the sheer scale of the place. Crowning the top of the hill, a massive granite and marble edifice dominated the landscape.

The front lawns were immaculately maintained, and a series of terraces with ornamental trees extended down the center. The driveway itself curved round the lawn, connecting the east and west gates in a rising arc designed to impress anyone approaching.

The effect worked.

Smithers found his breath taken back as Burns casually pulled up to the wide flight of marble stairs that lead to the front entrance.

A tall, thin man was standing in the open door, hands clasped behind his back. He didn't move, but his eyes locked on to the two men the moment the Bearcat rolled to a stop. His presence was rather intimidating, Smithers thought. Those white-blue eyes, pale blond hair. While Burns' eyes were a clear blue, they at least held the capacity for warmth. As Smithers walked past the tall steward, he noticed the man's eyes were like looking into winter itself.

The man didn't move, but his eyes locked onto Smithers.

He followed Burns and Smithers inside, closing the door and falling into step behind them.

If the mansion was impressive from the outside, it lost nothing on the inside as well. Paintings and tapestries adorned the walls. There were several sculptures posed at well-planned intervals. The floors were a combination of granite, some dark hardwood, and deep purple carpeting. A floating staircase curved up to a second level. Beyond that, Smithers couldn't see.

"Dinner is prepared. We'll be eating in the formal dining hall tonight," Burns explained.

Smithers nodded.

"Then after dinner, perhaps we'll go carousing through the town, or perhaps regale one another with exiting tales shared over a snifter of brandy. I must confess I don't know your passions, so I've taken the liberty of leaving the evening open to best accommodate you."

Smithers was taken back. Burns' congenial words and considerate attitude were at odds with what he had typically come to expect from the man. _When in Rome_ , Smithers thought to himself with an inward shrug, and followed Burns.

* * *

 **THEN**

The place setting was elaborate, and contained utensils Smithers had never even seen before. The food was amazing, a spread of all many of fish and fowl, meats and vegetables. The drinks were likewise unparalleled. Smithers found the red wine in his glass to be especially to his liking.

"Pardon me, but what's this gold tube for," he asked, picking up what appeared to be a solid gold soda straw.

"For sucking the last little bits of monkey brains out of the skulls," Burns replied casually.

"I see," said Smithers, mildly appalled. He set the monkey brain straw off to the side and wiped his hands on his napkin.

As Smithers ate, he took the time to truly study his boss. With nearly twenty feet of table between them, it didn't seem like staring. Burns was a few years older, perhaps, and a bit taller; handsome in an austere way. Aquiline features, and eyes that held a shrewd genius. He had his head down, focused on the meal before him, eating daintily.

Smithers noticed how Burns held his pinky fingers up when he held something. Periodically, he'd indicate to his steward, the man would come forward, and Burns would request something: a fresh glass of water or wine, a few more peeled peas, a dash of salt.

Burns looked up. "Don't be shy, Smithers. If there's anything you desire, my servants will attend to you. Johan can coordinate whatever you need."

"Thank you," Smithers replied.

Burns cupped a hand to his ear. "What was that?"

"I said 'thank you!'" Smithers yelled back. "Dinner is excellent."

("Excellent," mused Burns quietly, rolling the word around in his mouth. _I like the sound of that word; yes_.)

"You know, Smithers," he called out, "It is a terrible inconvenience to have to raise my voice just so you can hear me down there. Why don't you come here? Sit at my right hand?" There was an inscrutable look to Burns' mien that Smithers couldn't quite read. What is Burns playing at tonight? he wondered.

 _Oh, what the hell_ , Smithers thought. He was feeling rather cocky. He drummed his fingers across his lips, his expression almost coquettish. "Why don't _you_ come down here and sit next to me, _Mister_ Burns."

Burns back stiffened immediately. "You cheeky little scoundrel! You are quite the brass monkey, aren't you?"

Smithers held up his hands in mock apology. "I'm not quite sure I catch that metaphor," he admitted, "but I'd be happy to meet you in the middle."

Burns shrugged. "Fair enough."

He lifted his plate from his seat at the end of the table. Smithers gathered his. The steward snapped his fingers and several servants appeared seemingly out of nowhere. With a grunt and a point, he indicated the place settings to be moved.

Smithers and Burns settled across from each other at the center of the table. Chairs were brought behind them, and their place settings restored exactly to the order they'd left them in; complete with Smithers' "monkey brain straw" set a tasteful distance away. Smithers looked up, and caught Burns smiling across the table at him. He tried to smile back, but found himself blushing. He lowered his head, embarrassed. What was he, twelve or something? Cheeks reddening like a shy child? That wasn't him. He rubbed his face, took a deep quaff of wine, and hoped Burns hadn't noticed.

When he looked up, Burns was still watching him mildly, fingertips under his chin.

"I am so glad you could finally join me for dinner, Smithers," Burns began.

"Well, I must thank you for inviting me, Mister Burns-"

Burns gave a slight toss of his head. "Please. 'Mister' Burns was my father."

"'Sir'?"

"No. I don't much like the ring of that when it comes from your mouth."

"'Boss?'" Smithers tried.

Burns made a flicking gesture with his hands. "Heavens no! That sounds even worse from you than 'sir.' Call me 'Monty.' Come on, say it."

"Thank you… Monty," Smithers managed to get out, feeling a warmth start creeping back up his cheeks. He rubbed his neck with his hand and tried to act suave. _God, not again_ , he lamented, mortified. Burns merely watched without a saying a word, that same inscrutable expression still on his face.

* * *

 **THEN**

 _Blushing, seriously? For what cause?_ Burns asked himself as he regarded Smithers carefully, scrutinizing the man like some fascinating specimen. _Not for me, surely_ , Burns ruminated. Banish the thought. Perhaps though, blushing might be preferable to a look of fear. If so, this would be the first face Burns had encountered that wouldn't look better afraid.

Smithers had asked him something. Damn it all, lost in his own lucubration he'd missed it.

"I'm terribly sorry, how rude of me. I was thinking about… eh, our… er, my nuclear plant. What was that again, Smithers?"

Smithers repeated his question.

"Oh, that fellow there? That fine Aryan specimen is my manservant Johan, from Germany. He and I served as part of an elite protective echelon during the war. One can never leave a comrade at arms behind to the mercy of allied forces."

Smithers wrinkled his brow in confusion. "Allies? Comrade at arms? Monty… which side exactly did you fight on?"

Burns puffed out his chest. "Side!? My dear Smithers, it was a _war_! There are no sides, merely winners and losers. Moving on…" he settled back down, savored several more mouthfuls, then changed topics.

"For the rest of tonight's adventures there is always the choice of going out on the town, some harmless philandering. Certainly a young buck like you must be a real hit with the ladies, eh? Impassioned and savoring the sweet pleasures of youth?"

Smithers face clouded over momentarily. "That's what they say I should be," he remarked, pushing a piece of quail around on his plate before finally eating it.

"And you're not?" Burns probed.

Smithers slid his fingers up and down the stem of his wineglass then shrugged. "I guess I haven't found the right person, the right woman, yet," he replied.

Apparently the wine was getting to the fellow, Burns mused. Person, veritably? "Aren't you engaged to be married anyhow," he retorted.

Smithers snapped his head up and nodded vigorously. "That too, of course," he said hastily. "I mean, one can hardly indulge in womanizing when one has a fiancée. Am I right?" He took another sip of wine. "Yes! I _am_ right."

Burns rubbed his fingertips together thoughtfully. " _Are you_ , indeed?" he muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. In the battle of man versus vine, it appeared poor Smithers was losing to the grapes.

* * *

 **THEN**

"It's a real nice place you have here, Monty," Smithers remarked casually as their plates were cleared. A desert of berries and fruit was brought out.

"I am a tad partial to the old humble abode myself," Burns replied with false modesty.

Smithers smiled, then raised his empty wine glass, indicating to one of the servants that he'd like a refill.

"No," Burns replied, shaking his head. "I think you ought savor the moment, Smithers."

Smithers set the glass down and gave Burns miffed expression. His glass was promptly whisked up by a servant, and a full goblet of water placed in its stead. Smithers narrowed his eyes. He felt warm and uncharacteristically relaxed. The water looked terribly cold, with its ice cubes. Red wine would've been better.

He surrendered, and took a sip of the water, then popped a berry into his mouth. The taste was exquisite, somewhere between a fresh raspberry and melon.

"Ooh," he said after he finished. "What was that?"

Burns speared a piece of some tropical looking fruit piece. "That? Just a little hybrid I came up with between _Rubus strigosus_ and _Cucumis melo_."

"What are those?"

"A raspberry and a melon."

Smithers chuckled and ate another piece. "You like to be in control, don't you, Monty," he remarked incisively.

Burns said nothing, but raised an eyebrow.

Smithers continued. "That's not a bad thing, of course. I like to be in control too." Even as he spoke, Smithers felt himself sliding into dangerous territory. He tried never to talk about himself. His accomplishments, yes. His goals and ambitions were a safe topic as well. But he, Waylon Joseph Smithers, was a topic he preferred to keep off the table.

Burns paused his eating, and tented his fingers. "I take it you rarely partake in the fruits of the vine."

Smithers shook his head. "Could you please come again?"

Burns snorted. "Wine. You don't imbibe often, I think."

Smithers raised his palms. "You're right on that. Rarely if at all." He paused, had a few more berries, then shrugged. "I'm a bit of a perfectionist. I've seen how alcohol can lower one's inhibitions. I don't want that happening to me." His head swam as he tried to think of what he wanted to say… and what he didn't.

"You fear you have too much to lose if you let go of the reins for a bit, eh? That everything has to follow a specific course of action. Almost preordained machinations? That you must do certain things, in a precise order, or it will all come crumbling down; you'll be left impecunious and forsaken?"

Smithers popped the last piece of fruit in his mouth. Dear God, what was Burns actually getting at? Was he simply rambling to hear himself talk, or was the man making a less than subtle accusation of something? It seemed suddenly as if the air in the room had gotten stale. He sipped his water and tried to look anywhere but at Burns.


	6. Chapter 6

**THEN**

Burns smirked. He'd made the man squirm. Usually this would be a victory, Burns reasoned. This should make him feel good. To his surprise it didn't. If anything, he felt… regret? Pity? Some unpleasant thing he rarely felt. He'd put quite a spotlight on Smithers.

What are you doing, Monty, that nagging voice scolded. He's your guest, and you're toying with him. Shame on you.

 _Shame on me, indeed_ …, Burns found himself thinking.

He rose, took the long walk around the table, to stand beside Smithers.

"Come now, it's all in good fun," he said, extending a hand. "Two young men having an amiable chat after dinner."

Smithers took Burns' hand. Burns tugged Smithers to his feet. "I think though," Burns added, as he let go of Smithers' hand, "that you shouldn't be afraid to act on impulse, at least once in a while. Why, look at me," he declared with a flourish. "You put a teensy idea of a nuclear power plant in my head last winter, and now here we are, with approval to start clearing the site! Do you think that was my plan?" He put an arm around Smithers' shoulder, and started leading him from the dining room.

"My good man, that wasn't a plan at all! That was pure whimsy! I liked that idea, so I capitalized on it! And now look at us: proud plank-owners pioneering a new era for Springfield!"

Burns guided Smithers into the great hall.

"And," he purred, "I think you have a greater capacity for impetuousness than you're willing to give yourself credit for."

In front of a massive stone fireplace in one of the many sitting rooms, they paused.

"Why do you say that," Smithers asked, bemused.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No, Monty, it's not."

Burns gestured to the manorscape around them. "Why, my dear Waylon, you quit your job for me!"

* * *

 **THEN**

Smithers didn't bother to shrug Burns' arm from his shoulders, though he was not one who sought to be touched, especially not by another man.

He knew his reluctance for physical contact was a bit of a flaw. Even Roberta made comments from time to time that he wasn't physically affectionate. _I want to save that for marriage_ , Smithers deferred. Roberta would then tease him about being old-fashioned. He'd laugh and agree; but still remain firm in his decision.

"Sit," Burns instructed, gesturing to a high-backed wing chair.

Detaching himself from Burns' informal embrace he took a seat in the chair, and propped his feet on a convenient ottoman. Smithers' mind was a swirl of thoughts and emotions. When he tried to latch on to a single one, everything seemed dizzy. When he relaxed, and let things wash over him, it all seemed much easier. Such were the effects of alcohol.

He languidly regarded Burns. The man had a certain appeal to him, Smithers though. He could definitely come to enjoy their time together. He liked watching the way Burns moved, deliberate, but with an easy fluidity. He wondered vaguely if Burns would be a good dancer.

Smithers was fairly certain he was nowhere near the proverbial "drunk," and rationalized his current mood would be best described as "euphoria." It was a light, warm, almost giddy feeling; but not anything that would risk him losing control. The water he'd had with desert seemed to lessen the effect. He felt fully in command of himself.

Burns was up and doing something in the back of the room behind him. He heard the man muttering instructions to Johan(?) most likely, but he couldn't make out the words.

A door opened and shut. Then opened and shut again.

Burns reappeared into his field of vision, wearing a long pea coat, tan scarf, and black beret. "I was thinking," he began, "that perhaps we might take a night stroll around the grounds. Unless I miss my guess, staying in suits you better than hitting the town. If you're going to be working here, you might as well get familiar with the lay of the land."

Smithers turned his head thoughtfully. "I didn't bring a coat."

"Don't worry, I'm sure I have one you can borrow. I have a dashing foxhound-leather duster that I daresay would be just your size."

Smithers cast his gaze askance. _Foxhound-leather?_ "Is it made out of real dogs?" he asked warily. He still wasn't sure the monkey brain straw hadn't been a joke. It was very hard to tell with Burns.

Burns shrugged. "Would that be a problem for you?"

Smithers nodded.

Burns looked awkward for a moment, caught off guard.

 _That's a first_ , Smithers thought, watching calmly.

"Eh, calfskin. Let's say it is some fine novillo leather. Would that suit you better?"

"Yes," Smithers said with a mellow exhalation. "Much better."

"Novillo it is then!" Burns ducked out of sight again. Smithers found it easier not to turn his head and follow the man. He'd be back, Smithers reasoned. He was on a mission of some sort.

Burns capered back into view, holding out a long, beige duster. "Here," he said proudly, holding it out. "Try it on!"

Smithers rose carefully, and slipped his arms into the sleeves. It fit perfectly! _So smooth_ , Smithers thought, running his hands along the material. He turned one way, then the other, admiring the cut. "It's like it was made for me!" he remarked in surprise.

Burns shrugged. "Fancy that. I am glad you like it. Here," he handed Smithers a small box.

"What's in here?" Smithers asked, curious.

"An accessory," Burns replied tersely, without further explanation.

Smithers ran a hand through his thinning hair. Once again, Burns' mood had switched. Moments ago, he'd been positively chatty. Now he was taciturn and aloof, stoic and unreadable. _It'll make you mad to try and figure him out, Waylon_ , he advised himself. Like his father always said: play the game, boy. Just play the game.

He opened the small cardboard box. Inside was a grey scarf, made of the softest wool he'd ever felt. He took it out, and wrapped it about his neck. The soot grey matched perfectly with the light tone of his duster. He took a fringed end and stroked it over his cheek. "So soft…"

"Angora wool, from the finest rabbits."

"For me?"

"Do you see anyone else in this room?"

Smithers gave Burns a sly smile. "Now who's being 'cheeky'?" he quipped.

"Touché." Burns gave a slight bow. "Join me for a walk, Smithers. Fresh air will clear your head. I do enjoy a nightly constitutional around the grounds. We'll see if that new coat and scarf keep 'way the nighttide chill."


	7. Chapter 7

**THEN**

Burns and Smithers strolled under the moonlight, taking a route Burns had followed last month for his fox hunt. Occasionally Burns pointed out some architectural feature on his manor, or drew attention to other buildings that made up his estate.

"The stables, and, across from them the kennels."

Smithers regarded the buildings. "Did the guard dogs ever arrive?"

Burns nodded. "About two weeks ago."

"Do they bite?" he asked with a playful grin.

Burns grinned. "The bitey-est! I've already named one of them Crippler. Oh, he'll be quite the man-stopper, that one! You should see the bloodlust in his eyes!"

Though it was no longer early spring, the damp air had an unpleasant chill to it. Smithers rubbed his hands together, cupped them, then breathed into them to warm them. "You know, Monty," he said as they walked, "sometimes you make me nervous."

"Oh?"

"The things you say, the way you say it, can have an unsettling effect on people."

Burns took off his leather gloves. "So I've been told."

"You know they say you've done some pretty horrible things to people."

"Do they now," remarked Burns indifferently, bundling his gloves into one hand.

"Well, there was that time you failed your entire class on a whim-"

"No whim. Their constant back-chatter and note-passing irritated me."

Smithers gazed across the silver landscape, feeling the wind blow slightly. It was coming in from the north, almost wintery despite the month. Though his body still felt warm from the wine, and his duster blocked most the draft, he shivered. Smithers briskly tucked his hands in his pockets. The smooth, cool leather pockets were no warmer than the air. "They say you've done worse than fail students."

Burns moved closer. " _They_ do like to talk, don't they," he remarked, looking towards the distant hills. He handed his gloves over to Smithers.

Before he fully realized it, Smithers had taken Burns' gloves, and slipped them over his hands. They were a tight fit, scaled to Burns delicate features, but they were lined… and warm from Burns' hands.

"Oh, make no mistake about it, Smithers, I am not a good man; to some I am simply 'misfortune.' To others, I'm sure I am their 'devil.' I can live with that. Fear and respect are so closely intertwined. If I am not given one, I'll gladly ensure I get the other."

This didn't seem like a remark that warranted a response. So they walked, each lost in thought. It wasn't long before they reached the ends of the manicured lawns. The area behind, while still maintained, had a wilder feel to it. A great forest yawned before them, the grass was left longer like a meadow. To the east a bright expanse shown as if glowing in the moonlight.

Smithers wiped his glasses, and squinted towards the field. "Jonquils?" he asked in surprise. He started off to inspect the sight.

"Eh?" started Burns, surprised, but he moved to follow.

"It is! I didn't know you had jonquils. I love jonquils!"

Burns tried to appear nonchalant. "Oh, the daffodils. They, eh… they were planted last fall."

Smithers was picking up his pace. "You know, my mother used to have these growing in her garden. Every spring they'd pop up, and bloom for weeks it seemed. We used to pick great bouquets of them, my mother and I, and bring them inside. Even my brothers would get in on it. It was one of those things, silly really, but it still brings me back." He stopped at the edge of the daffodil field, crouched down, took a deep sniff, and exhaled slowly. "Mmmm, I missed that smell."

* * *

 **THEN**

Burns chewed a thumbnail thoughtfully, watching Smithers. To think a bunch of insignificant yellow flowers under the moon could excite him so? Perhaps it was the wine still loosening up his brain.

Or, perhaps, he thought as he worried his nail, he's simply not afraid to let me see him happy.

That was a strange concept for Burns. Showing simple joy. Other emotions he had no problem displaying, especially the delight at a victory or the thrill of crushing an adversary. This was different. There was no boastfulness to it. No chest-pounding or demands for attention.

 _Well then, Monty,_ he admonished himself, _you've not been particularly boastful this evening either. Giving him your gloves? Seriously, what are you thinking!_ He shook his head, arguing with himself. _Bunkum and balderdash! I did it without thinking!_ It just seemed like the right thing. Like Smithers and his daffodils there, just something natural to do.

Burns growled softly in his throat.

Natural. Since when was _giving_ natural? Or having a coat made specifically for another? And why on earth was he enjoying watching Smithers' happiness? Burns narrowed his eyes down to slits, and drew a small pen knife from within his coat.

* * *

 **THEN**

Smithers, still feeling slightly light-headed from earlier found himself enraptured by the ethereal sight before him: the daffodils bobbing and swaying in the breeze, beneath the pale moonlight. It was like some sort of scene out of fairytale.

He cupped one of the blooms in his gloved hands, caressing the petals gently. The pollen fell on his fingertips, like gold dust.

A shadow moved over him, eclipsing the light.

He looked up, startled, to see the dark form of C. Montgomery Burns threatening above him. There was a sharp flash in the moonlight, the blade of a knife in Burns' hand.

Smithers uttered a small shriek and started to fall sideways out of the way.

* * *

 **THEN**

Burns hastily reached out and grabbed Smithers' arm with his free hand, stabilizing the man's tumble. "Good lord, Smithers, what in blazes is that about?" he demanded, befuddled. He slapped the knife, hilt first, into Smithers' palm.

"Go find yourself the most perfect blooms," he ordered, "pick them, and we'll put them in a vase at the manor."

Smithers was still staring at him, mouth gaping like a fish.

"Well, get on with it, Waylon… Smithers. We haven't got all night-" Smithers rose to his feet.

"-But take your time," Burns finished. Then he added as an afterthought: "And enjoy it."

* * *

 **THEN**

The two men walked back across the lawns to the manor. Smithers carried a full bouquet of daffodils. "Did I truly frighten you that badly?" Burns asked, perplexed.

"Well, it gave me quite a start to see you standing over me with a knife; so, yes," he admitted.

Burns made a face. "You wouldn't want to pick them with your oafish hands. Why, you'd crush those delicate stems! They'd scarcely last a day once you got them home if you gathered them like that."

Smithers chuckled. "I suppose you're right."

"We'll have Johan put those in a vase for you, then some cognac by the fire to settle your nerves. I can't have jittery as a hog on ice. I need you cool, calm, collected. Like me."

A bit of Smithers' typical sass had reappeared. "Calm… like _you_ , Monty?"

Burns gave a laugh. "Perhaps it doesn't seem calm to you, Smithers. But at least I know who I am and what I want. Then I merely act accordingly." He tilted his head and looked sidelong into Smithers' face. "We are all slaves to our natures, my good man. We all have demons. I simply don't see any need to keep mine hidden away. I claim to be, at the marrow of my bones, a cold-hearted business man. It's done me well so far."

They made their way indoors, where Johan was waiting. Without speaking, he took their coats, Burns' beret, and Smithers' daffodils in one sweeping motion.

Smithers followed Burns to the same sitting room they'd been in earlier. A roaring fire had been lit, and the chairs pulled closer to the hearth. Burns lifted a glass flask down from a shelf, blew the dust from two glasses, turned the upright, and poured a tiny bit of caramel-colored liquid into each one.

"I opened this shortly before you arrived," Burns explained as he handed Smithers the glass. Cognac Vieux, eighteen-eleven. Ah, bottled even before my time, though I've been told it was an amazing year for the harvest. Long, hot summer and a warm, dry autumn."

He sat across from Smithers, swirled the brandy to let it air, then took a sip.

Smithers emulated his host, took a tentative sniff, and a small sip. The liquid was felt warm and smooth in his mouth, with a distinctive, almost fruitlike taste. There was a sweetness, but something else he couldn't pin down. He'd never had cognac before, but decided he immediately liked it. "I'm not sure how to describe it."

Burns smiled. "The term _rancio_ is used, but it's as difficult to define as the taste."

Smithers took another small sip, feeling the euphoric feeling return as the liquid entered his blood. "They say," he began slowly, looking through the glass at the fire, "that the more you try to describe something, the more you take away from it."

"Oh?" asked Burns.

"That descriptions and labels always fall short for truly capturing the essence of something. That once you start trying to pin a concept down in words, you'll lose the true nature of what it actually is." He leaned forward, chin resting in one hand, glass held out in front of him.

Burns eyed him up and down. "Are you a nuclear engineer or a philosopher?"

Smithers rolled his head towards Burns, feeling the world roll slightly with him. "Tonight? Tonight, Monty, I think I'm a little of both." He drained his glass, and held it out for a refill.


	8. Chapter 8

**THEN**

Smithers woke up, feeling disorientated and with a slight throbbing behind his eyes. Not a full hangover, he'd experienced those once or twice in his life, but like a little mini-hangover. He went to roll out of bed… and kept rolling.

The bed was much bigger than he remembered.

Smithers opened his eyes, and for a brief moment his mind reeled, trying to make sense of the world. In the dim light, his brain tried to turn the shadows into shapes from his apartment, and failing that, sent out a wave of panic.

Waylon Smithers rocketed awake, reaching for his glasses that were usually on the night-stand next to his bed. After a few moments of frantic scrabbling, he found them.

The world instantly snapped into focus.

He was alone in a Victorian style bedroom, on the edge of a king-sized canopy bed. Heavy velvet curtains had been drawn over the windows.

Burns Manor. He was at Burns Manor. The last thing he clearly remembered was sitting by a fire with his boss, discussing, what was it, philosophy or something? He couldn't quite recall what happened after that. The entire night, from dinner onward had a sort of shimmery quality to it when he tried to identify the details.

He got up, and pulled back the drapes.

The morning light brightened the room. It must've been about eight o'clock, he reasoned. This bedroom faced north, overlooking the veranda, lawns and gardens behind the manor. Now illuminated, he was able to make out the details of the room.

The furniture was overly ornate, and a chaise lounger was set near a shelf full of leather-bound books by the fireplace. A wash basin and pitcher rested on a small stand by a mirror. There were three doors in the room, one of which was left ajar into what appeared to be an attached bathroom. The other was a narrow, closet door.

Shimmery details or not, last night must've been real. On the mantle was a vase of freshly cut daffodils.

He padded over to the washstand, glad to see he was at least wearing his normal clothes, and poured some water into the basin. He washed and dried his face, and hung the towel on a rack nearby.

There was no comb or brush, so he smoothed his hair as best he could. By the door was a coat rack. His duster was hung on one peg, along with his regular suit-coat. A white lab-coat hung on a third peg.

Smithers lifted it down and examined it.

Rather than the typical linens of most laboratory coats, the one held in his hands was made of snow-white leather. His name, _Waylon J. Smithers_ , was stitched in red across the left breast. It appeared to be a similar material as the duster.

Feeling a bit like a trespasser, or Alice in wonderland, Smithers opened the door, and peered into the hall.

At first he didn't see anyone, but he heard a slight rustling of cloth. He started as Johan detached himself from the shadows beside a sculpture.

"Herr Smithers, _guten_ _morgen_ ," he said in muted tones, with his soft accent. Johan bowed slightly at the waist. "Herr Burns has taken his leave at the moment. I am to show you to breakfast, then to your laboratory. Please, allow me," he said, stepping past Smithers and gathering the lab coat over one arm.

Smithers fell into step behind the tall, thin man. Everything still seemed surreal, like a dream.

He ate a breakfast of coddled eggs, toast and fruit, feeling oddly self-conscious under Johan's unwavering stare. After he finished, Johan escorted him through corridors, and down a flight of stairs to a massive space.

It was a fully equipped laboratory, the sort that would make any scientist, private or government, green with envy. "This is your verkspace," Johan indicated. "Your current projects have been laid out for you by the drafting tables. Lunchtime is at noon sharp. I trust you can find your way. Herr Burns will be joining you then."

Smithers nodded mutely. He sat down at the table, found his favorite architect's pen had already been laid out for him, and got to work.

* * *

 **THEN**

"I stopped by your house last night, to see if you wanted to go see a show, but you weren't there," Roberta said, trying (and failing) to keep the accusatory tone from her voice.

"I know," Smithers said, as they walked hand in hand along the shores of Lake Springfield. "Mister Burns set me up with a private workspace in his lab. I was working late, and didn't get back at anything even resembling a reasonable hour."

She squeezed his hand. "I was worried about you. You should've called."

Smithers hung his head. "You're right. I should have. The time got away from me. I'm sorry." It was as close to the truth as he felt like going. How would the real explaination sound to her ears: _Sorry, I forgot to say anything to you. I was busy drinking with my boss, then we took a moonlit walk and I picked some flowers. Afterwards, we drank a bit more and I don't remember exactly what happened next._ He choked inwardly. _That didn't sound the least bit suspicious_ , he thought, tersely. He had to stay focused; a lifetime of control.

"Your own lab? That _is_ exciting! Do you think I could see it?" Roberta asked, brightening up. "It is… safe… isn't it?"

"Absolutely! There is nothing to be worried about there. I won't be doing any experiments with radioactive isotopes. At this point, most all of my work is pen and paper."

"What exactly do you do?"

He beamed, delighted to be talking about his work. "Well, mainly I'm drafting the plans and operational concepts for the plant. While there are government guidelines in place to keep everyone safe, a lot of the layout and design falls on the project manager. Mister Burns has some history in the nuclear field, but his knowledge is a bit dated compared to mine. My job right now is a combination of research and development, coordinating proposal submissions, and handling the backbone design of the facility."

"That's it?" Roberta joked.

"Well," Smithers replied, "I suppose I could offer to walk his dogs for him, but I think I won't volunteer."

"The dogs aren't too nice?"

"Not particularly. Mister Burns has been talking about keeping some on the grounds for estate guards. Originally they were all going to be used as security at the plant, but I think he's getting fond of at least a few of them." Smithers ran a hand over his moustache thoughtfully. "I'm sure it won't be a bother to give you a tour sometime, but I'll still have to ask him first. It's not as if it's just my office. It's also his home."

Roberta nodded. "I completely understand, Waylon." She leaned in and rubbed her nose against his. "Eskimo kiss," she giggled.

Smithers chuckled and nuzzled her back. "Icey smoochies." Ah, Roberta. He did love the woman. She made him smile, and he cherished the idea of having a family with her. They'd be great parents together, a houseful of little feet pattering around, her musical laughter and the happy squeals of their children.

Smithers saw his dreamed future so clearly in his mind's eye: he'd come home from work, hang his hat on the rack, and scoop up whoever was nearest in a great big hug. While he was working, Roberta would be tending to the house. At seven o'clock, they'd all sit down together for a nice family meal. Afterwards, he'd clean up the kitchen with the children while Roberta relaxed. In the evening, if it was nice, they'd play in the backyard. If it was rainy or cold, they'd play board games, or maybe listen to the radio and work on crafts. Some year, when the children were old enough, he'd get the family a dog. Or maybe a cat. Roberta was always saying how much she liked cats, and he wanted to be able to provide whatever her heart desired.

Yes, that what Waylon Smithers openly admitted he desired in life.


	9. Chapter 9

**NOW**

"Remember the first time you brought Roberta to the manor," Monty reminisced as the two men sat at their desks.

"Oh, how could I forget? Then, after dinner," chuckled Waylon, "she so wanted to see the hounds…"

"So I told you to bring Isadore…"

"But they all look alike, so I grabbed Crippler…"

"And before I could scream 'no, Smithers, you dolt!' you'd brought him right up to her…"

"Then all he did was lick her face."

They laughed at the memory, but Waylon's laugh soon turned melancholy. He sighed and stretched his feet out, bumping Burns' legs. Burns didn't mind. "Ah," he said sadly. "What happened, Monty? Everything seemed so simple two years ago."

Monty twirled a strand of his silver hair around a finger. He'd been letting it grow out a bit, trying to compensate for the gradual thinning. At least he wasn't bald like Waylon. Monty had to admit, Waylon pulled it off. He looked sharp, professional. He didn't need thick locks to look dashing.

Waylon was still as dapper a chap as he was when they'd first met, when Monty had been a young professor, and Waylon the intrepid graduate student. Ah, Monty mused, if he'd known then what he knew now, perhaps he would've done a few things differently. _Or perhaps I would've done everything exactly the same_. He drummed his fingers on the desk, carried a few figures, did some brief additions, and glanced up at Waylon. For a moment he paused. He set down his pen, rested his chin in his hand, and sentimentally regarded his partner.

Indeed, Monty mused, feeling a wave of nostalgia. He decided if he had the choice to redo their friendship, he still would do everything exactly the same.

* * *

 **NOW**

"My sister-in-law and her husband have been helping Roberta with the baby," Waylon remarked quietly.

"Oh?"

Waylon nodded. "Charlotte and Alex. They have a son about two years older than Waylon, so they've been coming over to the house while I'm at work, to make sure everything's going alright. Charlotte's been driving Roberta to her doctors' appointments."

Monty listened. He wanted to ask, but didn't dare. Waylon could be so clandestine about certain personal matters. He'd talk about it if he was ready to.

"The treatment," Waylon paused, "hasn't been going as well as they hoped. The doctors want to keep her at the hospital. Charlotte offered to watch Waylon during the day, but she's pretty far along with the second baby. At some point, she won't be able to."

Burns steepled his fingers.

"You're asking if you could bring that infant here?"

Waylon nodded sadly. "Not every day, I mean, but it's quite likely that's what I'll have to do."

Burns put on his most unreadable expression. He tapped the tips of his interlaced fingers against his mouth pensively. He furrowed his brow. "If this were anyone else asking," he began, jabbing a finger towards Waylon's chest, "there would not be a moment of hesitation. The answer would be a flat-out ' _no!_ ' But this is _you_ we're talking about."

Waylon's face was the picture of hope.

"For you," Monty intoned gravely, "I will allow it." Waylon started to reply, but Monty cut him off with a wave of his hand. "But please understand, the care and tending of your progeny will fall solely on your shoulders! I want nothing to do with child-rearing, and I'll not have him getting in my way."

Waylon leapt up, grabbing both of Monty's hands in his. "Thank you! _Thank you!_ " he exclaimed, squeezing Monty's hands warmly.

Monty rose to his feet, linking his fingers around Waylon's. He tried his best to keep any hint of a smile from forming, but his tone betrayed him. How wonderful it was to finally see some joy in his partner's eyes. "Don't get all soft on me, man! For god's sake, show a little dignity!"

Waylon couldn't reply, simply laughed happily, tilting his head back.

Monty's face, despite all his intention, split into an open grin. "Oh, fiddlesticks, Waylon. You make too much out of this!" He swung Waylon's hands back and forth. "You'll embarrass us both."

Still laughing, Waylon loosened his grasp. A few seconds, Monty did as well, though not without giving Waylon's hands a parting squeeze.

"I'm sorry, _sir_ ," Waylon teased. "I'll never suffer you such an, eh, an _effusive outpouring of_ _sentiment_ again."

Burns smirked at him. "Cheeky scoundrel."

Waylon winked back. "Absolutely!"

* * *

 **THEN**

Waylon Smithers picked up Roberta at her parents' house after he left Burns Manor. Sometimes they drove up to the western hills, or north to Lake Springfield. Roberta simply enjoyed his company.

Roberta wore a red hairband, to keep her auburn hair from blowing in her face. She rarely wore red, but it was her favorite color. Her mother told her red was to be used sparingly, that it could overpower, and sent the wrong message.

Roberta thought sometimes her mother was a bit old-fashioned. The first time Roberta had worn make-up her mother had huffed about "war-paint" and how she was not going to have any "painted ladies" in her house. Fortunately, her mother had relaxed in time, especially after she and Waylon were formally engaged. Her parents approved of Waylon. Even her father thought Waylon was a good choice for her. He generally never approved of any man.

Roberta had the window down, and let her hand hang out, playing with the air. The weather had finally started to warm up, and she was savoring the moment. Both moments, actually. The mild day, and her time in Waylon's company.

"I feel like we don't get much time together lately," she admitted.

Smithers piloted the car across the river, and turned north. "Roberta, I want to show you something." Between Inspiration Point and the bridge he stopped the car along the roadside.

He climbed out, then crossed over to get Roberta's door, and extended a hand to her. "M'lady," he bowed slightly.

She laughed, and gave him a playful swat on the arm. "I can get out a car by myself, Waylon."

He shrugged, but remained with his hand out. Shaking her head, Roberta took it, and he guided her up. Smithers shut the door behind her. "Look down there," he pointed to a spot where the river bent. "Do you see where those trees have been cut?"

Several acres of previously forested land had been cleared below them. Where the ground leveled out, the first stages of development had already started. The trees had been cleared to make way for construction equipment. Though stumps remained, the trunks had been delimbed, and were stacked in neat piles.

"That," Smithers said proudly, "is going to be the site of the nuclear generating station, right there!"

He pointed towards the river side of the clearing. "The reactors and cooling towers will be on that side. The water's drawn directly from the river. We'll have inflow pipes there," he pointed upstream, "and exiting pipes there," he gestured downstream near the bridge. "The containment structures, where the reactor vessels and generators are going to be there," he gestured towards another spot on the clearing.

Proudly, Smithers went on, describing the soon-to-be nuclear plant. As he explained what would be where, Roberta could almost see it herself. It was like getting a glimpse through her fiancé's eyes. She saw the cooling towers, the office complex, a parking lot full of cars. He described how the road was going to be widened and cut to facilitate the new traffic flow.

Roberta loved it when Smithers got like that: when a fire was ignited in his brain: that gleam of barely restrained anticipation. Her Waylon was generally calm, and a tad sassy. In those rare moments, like the one he was in now, she could see a depth of intensity that he usually kept bottled away. Beneath his jocular exterior beat the heart of a passionate genius.

Sometimes Roberta wished he could be like that more often. Especially with her.

It wasn't that Waylon was indifferent. Quite the contrary, he was very attentive, at times overly conscientious. He was just… reserved; especially in his affections. He wasn't afraid to hold hands, or give her a kiss. Such casual contact he welcomed freely. If she tried to draw out anything more, he'd gently remove her hands, and tell her he was saving himself for their wedding night.

 _You're a prude, like my parents_ , she'd huff in a mock-pout.

He'd give her that trademark smirk, and remark that he was merely old-fashioned; nothing more.

* * *

 **THEN**

"Wait here a minute," Smithers said, having finished describing the future nuclear plant.

"Where are you going," Roberta asked, turning to face him.

"Just to the car," he replied quickly. "Don't look!"

Roberta made a shooing gesture and smiled. "Fine, fine." She turned her back to him, and looked out over the river. She heard him open the trunk, there was some rustling noises. The trunk slammed shut.

Behind her were more sounds: a _floof_ of a blanket or rug being shaken out, the _clink_ of some dishes. She resisted the urge to peek. "Okay," he said. "You can look now!"

Roberta turned. Her Waylon had set up a small picnic dinner, complete with the red-and-white checkered blanket. There were dainty sandwiches, a little plate of fruit and cheese, with some berries she'd never seen before. In the center was a single daffodil in a slender glass vase.

Smithers patted the ground next to him. She came and sat down on a pillow he'd set out. "What a surprise!" she exclaimed, looking at the variety of delicate treats before her. She picked up a sandwich and nibbled a corner. It was delicious.

"They're called 'tea sandwiches,'" Smithers explained.

She ate one of the berries. "Mmmm, what is this?"

Smithers smiled. "They're a cross between a melon and a raspberry."

"How'd that happen?"

"I have no idea. It's something Mister Burns created."

She tilted her head. "Created?"

He nodded. "It's a hybrid. I'm not really sure how he did it. Tasty though, aren't they?" He popped one in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

They continued the meal, making small talk between bites, and enjoying the view. After they'd finished, Smithers started packing up. He handed her the vase and flower. "This is for you. The most perfect bloom in the field for the most beautiful woman in Spring _field_." He winked.

"I didn't know there were any around her," Roberta remarked, giving the daffodil a delicate sniff.

"There's an entire field full of them back at the manor. Most are past prime now, but there are still a few new blooms."

Roberta walked to the car with him, thinking quietly to herself. "Did those sandwiches come from there too?"

Smithers paused as he loaded the picnic basket into the trunk. "From the field?"

"No, silly. You know what I meant."

"Oh! From the manor?" He shut the trunk. "Yes, they came from there. Mister Burns had his chef prepare them for me this afternoon." He held open Roberta's door, and offered her a hand as she climbed in.

Roberta felt an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. She wasn't sure exactly what it was. Nausea would be far too strong a word. It felt like a snake was coiling inside her. She didn't like the sensation one bit.

"Everything here came from the manor?"

Roberta saw Smithers hesitate before answering. He turned the engine on, and maneuvered deftly though the gears as they started down the hill. "…Yes…" he replied cautiously.

"I see."

Smithers glanced over at her. "Mister Burns lets me have access to anything I want there. I've got free range of the manor and grounds, I have permission to make requests of his servants. He lets me make use his amenities as I like." His voice had taken on a slightly defensive tone.

"He lets you pick the flowers in his gardens."

Smithers was looking straight ahead. "Yes," he replied tersely. "He _lets_ me pick flowers if I so chose to."

"And in exchange you just have to spend all your waking hours at the manor, working for him." Roberta held the vase close to her chest. "You know, this story sounds something like the tale _Beauty and the Beast_. Do you know that one?"

Smithers sighed. "Yes, Roberta. I know that story. We all know that story-"

"Where the beast offered Beauty everything her heart desired, but she was still his prisoner-"

Smithers interrupted her. "But he turned out to be a handsome prince, and they all lived happily ever after. The end."

Roberta couldn't read his expression, but she could hear the irritation in his tone. She looked away.

Smithers downshifted, and crossed the bridge. "I don't understand what you're bothered by, Roberta. Mister Burns is my boss. He wants me to be happy. You are my fiancée and he understands that. You didn't object to joining us for dinner either."

' _Us!' Damn! Idiot!_ Smithers clenched the wheel tightly, and hoped Roberta didn't notice.

"I had a wonderful time," she admitted. "Everything was beautiful. I just… I don't know Waylon… I don't know what I'm trying to say."

Smithers took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly. They were getting close to Roberta's house, and he didn't want the evening to end like this. He slowed down, and pulled onto a side street. Smithers pulled over to the side of the road, and put the car in park. He leaned back, and looked Roberta straight in the eye.

"My dearest Roberta," he began slowly, choosing his words carefully, "The things I do for Mister Burns, this is my job. It may not be as conventional as teaching at the university, but once the plant's built and I have an office there, it will seem like a typical job. It's different now because I work at the manor. Yes, I see him every day. But it's no different than my fellow faculty at the university! I saw them every day too."

Roberta held her daffodil vase to her chest, took slow breath to calm herself, and looked out the window. "It feels different, Waylon," she said.

He put a hand on her shoulder. "It only feels different to you because I work out of his home." He thought of what else he could say. "Lots of people work there though. It's not like I'm alone with him. There are the groundskeepers, the housekeepers…"

"That particularly creepy houseman he keeps," Roberta added.

Smithers couldn't help but smile. "You think Johan's creepy too? Whew, that's a relief. I was worried it was just me."

The tension from the previous moment broke, and Roberta chuckled. "Are you kidding? The look in his eyes, I bet he could freeze water just by glaring at it!"

Smithers found himself snickering. "Maybe that's why it's been so cold lately! Mister Burns let him look out the window!"

Roberta was fairly laughing now. "Oh, they really should keep him inside!"

"I agree. But let him out once a year; right before Christmas so we have plenty of snow!"

Roberta reached a hand out and cupped Smithers' cheek. "Oh, Waylon," she whispered, looking into his eyes, "I can't promise I won't get mad at you-"

Smithers put a finger to her lips, cutting her off. "Shhh. Don't say it. People get mad at other sometimes, but that doesn't mean they don't love each other. Everyone gets mad sometimes." He lifted her hand from his cheek and kissed her palm. Wordlessly, he put the car back in gear, and they rode in silence back to her house.

Outside his car, he walked her to the front door. Smithers paused on the steps.

He leaned towards her, careful not to spill the vase, or crush her daffodil. She met him, and they kissed in the way he did: a peck on each cheek, and a quick kiss on the lips. He held her hand a second longer, looking into her face as he bid her goodnight. _Why does life always have to be so damn complicated?_ he thought, watching himself reflected in her dark, soulful eyes.

He turned and walked back to his car, and followed the familiar route to his apartment. He parked his car on the street, walked up the flight of stairs, and let himself in. He spent so much time at the manor lately, it seemed like he only came home to sleep.

Smithers went through his nightly, pre-bedtime routine, put on his pajamas, and climbed into bed. He set his glasses on the nightstand, and turned out the light. The last thing he remembered before he drifted off the sleep, was the final lines of every fairytale:

 _And they both lived happily ever after. The End._


	10. Chapter 10

**THEN**

Smithers arrived at the manor earlier than usual. The sky was lightening quickly, but the sun hadn't risen quite yet. He entered the code at the gate, drove up the curving drive, and parked at the front door. When he'd started working for Burns, he used to feel self-conscious leaving his car to be put away by the staff. Now he didn't even think about it. He grabbed his satchel, and trotted quickly up the front steps.

Johan, silent as ever, was waiting at the door. He held out a hand for Smithers' car keys. Without even thinking about it, Smithers dropped his keys into Johan's palm, and headed down to the laboratory.

Smithers' mind was especially preoccupied as of late. His somewhat tense conversation with Roberta a few days ago, and the knowledge that sooner or later they'd actually have to pick a wedding date weighed on his mind; in addition to the latest preparations for the groundbreaking.

The laboratory at Burns Manor was an elaborate affair, with an airlock-style entry, and a security keypad. Smithers punched in his personal code, the same one that opened the gates to the estate, and ducked in.

He tossed his satchel carelessly onto a bench, and grabbed his lab coat off a hook by the door. As he was shrugging it on, he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"Well, good morning, dear chap. I see you're ahead of daybreak."

Smithers turned, and saw C. Montgomery Burns strolling leisurely out of the biotech wing. Burns was wearing a white, button up shirt, and a pair of casual slacks. He had his sleeves rolled up past his elbows.

"I hope you don't mind, Monty. Down here I feel I can get some peace."

"A troubled mind and wakeful nights?" Burns tilted his head inquiringly.

"I've got a lot on my mind lately."

Burns gave a toss of his hand. "My dear Smithers, I know the feeling! Sleep, such as it is, never does come easily to the talented virtuoso. No, our minds are much too busy to be bogged down with such a trifling as sleep." Burns tented his fingers. "It is one of my dreams to finally transcend the need for such paltry concerns. Ah, if I could only attain such an unfettered state it would be… oh, what was your word?... _Excellent_." He grinned toothily tapping his fingertips together.

Smithers buttoned his lab coat. "It would be excellent, yes."

"Why, imagine what mankind could accomplish without sleep, or with immortality!"

This was all a bit erudite for Smithers this early in the morning. He saw, fortunately at least, Burns had left the coffee pot on. He poured himself a cup of the scalding, bitter brew. He blew on the surface to cool it, then set the mug on his workbench.

"A nice pipedream, Monty," he agreed.

Burns paused his finger-drumming. "' _Pipe'_ dream? Oh no, my dear lad, toss such dismissive thoughts down the tube. I want to show you something. Come along. Usually I try to have everything done before you get down here, but," Burns chuckled, "the early bird gets the worm, eh?"

Burns escorted him into the biotechnology wing of the lab, then paused at sealed door. "My private lab," Burns explained. He entered a code into the keypad, then put his palm on a scanner. As a final measure, he leaned close to a camera, and a red light scanned his eye. "Retina scanning," he explained, proudly. He gestured grandly as the door hissed open. "Waylon, my dear, welcome to my private sanctum!"

The room was smaller than Smithers had expected, but it was still substantial. Along one wall, several bays of various plants sat under grow lights. There were seedlings, and vines sitting quietly in trays of blueish fluid. Smithers reached towards a curious looking green pod.

"Oh, don't get too close to that one," Burns warned. "It got a taste of my blood the other day, and has been a right pill ever since."

As if on cue, the pod opened and snapped at Smithers' finger.

He backed up hastily and almost bumped into a cage full of some small parrot-like birds. They flapped wildly at his presence. Their heads were curiously shaped, almost resembling hawkish human faces. " _Burnsgerigar_ ," Burns explained. "I rather like the idea of raptors with my countenance, but felt it best to start small, and see how it went."

"I see…" Smithers said, not sure what else to say. The burnsgerigar squawked and chirped, watching him with their unsettling, human-like eyes.

By the far wall was a reclining operating chair beneath a surgeon's lamps. Several racks were mounted above to hang equipment or intravenous fluid bags. A clear refrigeration rack, various vials of all sorts and colors stacked neatly inside.  
"Usually I'm done with this by now," Burns remarked, turning his back to Smithers and pulling a syringe out of a sterile packet. He stuck the needle into a colored vial, draw out some purple fluid, then injected it into an IV bag hanging above the chair.

Smithers watched wordlessly.

Burns saw down in the chair, and tightened a tourniquet around his left arm. He ignored Smithers as he took a betadine swab, wiped his arm, then deftly inserted an IV needle into his vein. He opened the line, and the purple liquid began to drip into his body. He reclined in the chair, and rolled his head towards Smithers.

"Better life through chemistry, eh?"

"Monty! What are you-" Smithers started.

"-Don't be a nervous nelly," Burns scolded. "I've been doing this for years. Just a little elixir I concocted to preserve the vitality of youth and stave off the ravages of aging."

Smithers was flabbergasted. "YOU invented a youth serum!?" he practically yelled.

Burns winced. "For god's sake, bring your voice down, man! Do you know how sound echoes in here! I don't need you bellowing like some wounded animal and deafening me. Indoor voice, Smithers!"

Smithers put up his hands. "Sorry, Monty; it's just… does this actually work?"

"Absolutely!"

"Good lord! Do you know how much people would pay to get their hands on this?"

Burns looked at a clock on the wall. "I have an idea."

Smithers tried to contain his excitement. "But Monty, you could be rich!"

"I already am," Burns replied nonchalantly.

"You would be a great philanthropist!"

Burns made a dismissive gesture. "Not interested."

"You could be, I don't know, something great! The sort of person who people look up to! A hero folks would want to be like!"

Burns gave Smithers a very patronizing stare. "Waylon, I've said this before. I don't give a fig about other people, and what they think of me. If I ever were to care about anyone (and I don't, mind you), it wouldn't be someone I'd view as the common man." Burns glanced at the clock again, turned off the fluid line, and with a quick flick, removed the needle from his arm. He placed a finger over the puncture, to stop any bleeding. "As for hero? No. I far prefer the role of a villain. When you're the hero, people start expecting you to behave a certain way. When you're the villain, you can do whatever you want."

Burns gave Smithers a predatory grin. "So, want a taste?"

"Excuse me?"

Burns gestured to the IV bag. "Want to know what it's like to live, if not forever, than for a lot longer than you ever imagined?"

Smithers paused, and rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. "How much longer are we talking about?"

Burns swung his thin legs off the foot-rest of the chair and sat up. "What year do you think I was born in?"

Smithers held up his hands. "Monty. I don't want to make that guess."

"You don't get to make that decision." Burns bared his teeth. "That was _not_ a request."

"I _do_ get to make that decision, _Mister_ Burns," Smithers replied, folding his arms across his chest. "And I'm deciding _not_ to answer that question."

Growling, Burns leapt up and stormed over to Smithers. "You will do as I say, _or else_!" He was toe to toe with the shorter man, chest heaving with emotion, eyes furious.

"Or else what?," Smithers replied, narrowing his eyes and not giving an inch. "I'd say you're my age, maybe a few years older, but nothing more beyond that."

("Try twice your age," Burns muttered to himself.)

"What was that, Monty?"

"I was born in 1881. Do you hardly think I'd be the picture of vivacious youth if this little elixir didn't work? Why, I'd be a senile old man!" He leaned in, conspiratorially. "So, Waylon, my fellow, what do you say? Just a little drop, for prosperity?"

Smithers rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully.

"Honestly, Monty, I think I'm going to have to pass on that for now. Maybe next time though."

Burns shrugged. Any trace of rage that he'd shown seconds ago had melted away, replaced by a cordial cheerfulness. "Well, suit yourself, Smithers. But don't worry that I'd let it go to waste. I've started giving Crippler a bit of the old juice, hehe."


	11. Chapter 11

**THEN**

Montgomery Burns drummed his fingers on the table an annoyance. Devil take it, what was his chef doing in there! He'd been waiting a whole three minutes for his soup already. No one appreciated the value of timely service anymore.

Smithers sat across the table from him, reading a letter.

The two men had taken to sharing meals. It was a chance to catch up on the latest developments with the site, discus plans and revisions. It wasn't purely a business arrangement though. Burns found himself enjoying Smithers' company. He liked having another person around. The stable balance to his genius and caprice.

Ever since their first dinner together, they ate at the center of the table. It made the meal seem more (informal? domestic?) comfortable for Burns.

"I'm going to see what the deuce is taking those fools so long," Burns snapped, rising sharply.

"Sit," Smithers directed, without looking up from his letter.

Burns froze. The audacity! "Excuse me?"

"Sit. Being angry won't make the broth boil any faster."

Charles Montgomery Burns stood there, mouth open, in astonishment. The casual way that Smithers had reacted left Burns speechless. That rarely happened. Not knowing what else to do, he sat down.

Smithers had his head down, and was munching on a piece of toast. He flipped to another page in the letter, read it, made a noncommittal sound, and continued reading.

 _He told me to sit_ , Burns' mind whirled in consternation. _He told me to sit, and like a dog, I did! What is wrong with me?_ He put his head on the table with a loud _thunk_.

Smithers looked up from his letter, face expressionless. "Are you okay, Monty?"

 _Am I? I have no idea!_ Burns wailed inside his own head. "Nnngh," he groaned softly.

Burns heard the whisper-soft tread of Johan's feet on the carpet. A bowl of soup was placed in front of him. Burns beat his forehead against the table. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ , he thought with each strike.

* * *

 **THEN**

Smithers watched Burns bang his head on the table. Over the months, he'd gotten used to Monty's strange eccentricities. At first, the man's occasional bouts of self-injurious behavior had been alarming.

Over time Smithers learned, it was generally best to ignore such childish outbursts. The more attention he paid to Burns when the man got like this, the longer the episode lasted.

It was, however, quite a distracting thing to try and read over. Smithers sighed in mild annoyance, and put down the papers. "Are you going to eat that," he asked, pointing to the soup.

"Just take it," Burns mumbled, without looking up.

Smithers shrugged, pulled the bowl over to his place-setting, and began to eat. It would've been a pity to let it get cold.

* * *

 **THEN**

 _What are you going to do, Monty_ , Burns asked himself as he paced the floor of his overly extravagant bedchamber. Smithers had gone home for the night a few hours ago, and Burns had intended to try getting an early to-bed. Instead, sleep eluded him.

He walked to the balcony, and looked out over his estate. A warm breeze was blowing in, carrying with it the scent of late spring blooms and flowering trees that would soon be bearing their fruit.

Burns hands clutched the railing, as he surveyed the scene. Here he was, master of his domain, and yet he felt oddly alone. Smithers was starting to leave a large hole in Burn's life when he went home for the night. The quietness that Burns once found restorative now felt painfully empty. He missed the banter, the discussions. He even found he missed just having someone around to share the space with.

Burns puffed his cheeks, and exhaled slowly, looking up at the blue-black sky. A new moon tonight, and no clouds. The stars twinkled down at him. _Like Waylon's eyes when he smiles_ , Burns thought, with a sad fondness. Ah, what he wouldn't give to be able to drive over to Smithers' house, and share some company for the evening.

No, Burns recanted. Scratch that. Smithers' tiny apartment was by no means a place he would want to spend his time. He drummed his fingers on the balustrade. _Smithers is there, I am here. I want Smithers, but I don't want to go there. Annoyances._

Sleep was clearly not something he'd be getting at any time soon.

Burns threw a bathrobe over his pajama-clad frame, and stepped into his house slippers. He grabbed a bottle of young cognac from the private liquor cabinet in his chambers, debated pouring himself a glass, then changed his mind.

Bottle in hand, he wandered the length and breadth of his manor, thinking.

Slowly, the contents of the bottle decreased, but a thought was starting to form in his mind. It was an absurd, irrational idea, yet the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Smithers… here… Was there any reason not to?

His wanderings had taken him back to the residential wing. Though his bedchambers was by far the most spacious, it was not the only room in what he referred to as the residential wing. Burns manor had initially been built to house a large family, as well as their guests. It wasn't but a few months ago, or was it even more recently, that he'd had Johan put an inebriated Waylon to bed in one of the guest suites.

Why not make such an arrangement a more permanent thing?

There was a room adjacent to his that would be perfect for Smithers. It offered a lovely view of the grounds and a private balcony, boasted a walk in closet bigger than Smithers' current living space, and had bath that would rival his own master bath. Almost. In addition to everything else, there was a massive marble fireplace, that could warm up the room beautifully when the weather got cold.

Burns tilted the bottle up, and took another sip. He wiped his mouth with his hand, and set the bottle on a convenient dresser. This room, yes, this one here! Ah, it would be perfect! He'd have a pair of chairs moved up and put by the fireplace, and a drawing table so Smithers didn't have to work downstairs all the time. He'd bring up his favorite polar bear rug, and put that by the hearth as well, in case Smithers felt like reposing by the flames.

The thought of Smithers lying on that rug? Now that was quite the picture, wasn't it? He giggled, and clasped a hand over his mouth.

Those violet curtains? They'd have to go. For Smithers a deep forest green would look best.

He debated putting in an order to have the baby grand piano moved out, but decided to keep it. Burns considered himself a bit of a maestro when it came to the keyboard. Perhaps he could entertain Waylon with one of his pieces sometime. It wasn't like the piano was taking up that much space. It should stay. But a nice candelabra sitting on top would really complete the look.

Those bookshelves could stay too. Right now, he wasn't entirely sure what volumes were in them, but it didn't matter. Smithers could decide what he wanted.

Seeing the room take shape mind delighted Burns. He clapped his hands, feeling almost giddy in anticipation.

What if he doesn't want to move in, that pesky little voice suddenly asked.

Burns paused. He'd never even considered that. Why on earth wouldn't Waylon… Smithers… want to move in with him at the manor? Why on earth would he even want to stay in his tidy little bolthole when he could have all this? Burns gave a snort of disgust. That sort of existence could hardly be called living.

Burns clenched his teeth. _He'll move in, I won't take no for an answer_.

He's as stubborn as you are.

Thus began another argument with himself. _I'll appeal to his common sense. There he is, paying rent on a place he's hardly at, and commuting all the way across Springfield to get to work. I'll point out the money he could save by this cohabitation._

He doesn't care about money.

 _I'll remind him that he's got a fiancée to think about. If he ever wants a house of his own, he has to start planning for it now. He could have a nicer house, in a better locale, if everything he makes goes into saving._

The little voice was quiet for a minute. Burns was beginning to think it had shut up and gone away, but alas such was not his luck.

Yes, the voice said, but what will you do when that day comes?

 _What day?_

They day he actually does marry Roberta? You know he can't stay here forever.

Burns let his arms drop to his side and sat down on the canopy bed. _I'll deal with that when it happens_ , he told himself. He got up, walked to the dresser, and grabbed the bottle roughly by the neck. He threw his head back and took a long drink. An undignified way to enjoy such a brandy, but he could not care further at the moment. He let the amber liquid burn down his throat, bringing a slight sting to his eyes.

He set the bottle down and ran a hand over his face, massaging the bridge of his nose. Unbidden, he remembered something he had been taught as a child, long before he moved in with his grandfather: sufficient unto each day is the evil thereof.

There was no sense in adding more trouble to the day than might already come. He shook his head to clear it. Waylon Smithers wasn't even living with him, and here he was worried about the day the man would move out? Such foolishness. He growled, and debated hurling the bottle at the wall to vent his frustrations.

 _No!_ he thought, bringing his emotions quickly back under control. It would make a horrible mess, possibly stain. He wanted this room to be perfect for Smithers. He wasn't going to risk ruining anything with some puerile temper tantrum.

Tomorrow, he'd give Johan a detailed list of instructions on the changes to be made to this room, then when it was complete, he'd announce his offer.

Burns walked down the hall to his bedchamber, weaving ever so slightly. His tolerance for strong drink was something he felt justly proud of. It had allowed him to outlast more than one alcohol-loosened negotiation with some amateur horse-trader of a financier. When other men would've been past all reason, Charles Montgomery Burns was only starting to feel the effects. If Smithers had been there, trying to match him sip for sip, the man would be falling down drunk.

 _I pity the poor bastard would ever try to take advantage of me over a drink_ , he thought haughtily as he slipped off his overwear and climbed into bed. _Tomorrow, I'll see to it that Waylon's room gets started_. He yawned and stretched, burrowing deep into the plush blankets. For the first time in a long time, Monty Burns had no trouble falling asleep.


	12. Chapter 12

**THEN**

Smithers carried a box of his clothes up the stairs. Johan had tried to take it, but Smithers waved him off. The box wasn't heavy. He preferred to Johan take the bulky items.

"I must say," Burns remarked from the top of the landing, "I was surprised Roberta didn't object."

Smithers carried the box past Burns. "She did," he replied a tad sharply.

"Oh."

Burns fell into step beside Smithers. "It took me the better part of last week before we could discuss this calmly," he huffed. "Then nearly all of this week before she agreed."

"What finally caused her to change her mind," Burns queried.

Smithers carried the box into his room and set it down by the closet. "When she realized I wasn't going to back down, I think." He wiped his brow. "Roberta can be quite a force to be reckoned with when she wants to be." Smithers remembered their conversation all too well. The gist of it revolved around his argument that he would be able to save all his earnings for them. The bulk of her protest came from the fact she didn't like the way he and Burns were becoming so chummy, and she wasn't comfortable about it.

 _If you were moving in with Lynette or Edith_ , he pointed out, friends of hers from typing school, _I wouldn't have a problem with it at all._ Smithers folded his arms across his chest.

 _That's different!_ Roberta had protested. When Smithers asked her how, she couldn't explain. _I just don't like it_ , Roberta declared.

Smithers felt persecuted by her attitude. It wasn't unusual for two adults to share a living quarters for mutual benefits. _Higgins and Pickering, Sherlock and Watson!_ Smithers exclaimed, animatedly.

 _Waylon, those are fictional characters_ , Roberta snapped. _This is real life. It's different when it's real._ Tears of frustration started to fill her eyes.

Smithers hated to see her cry, for whatever reason. It always made his heart ache. He consoled her as best he could. _But,_ he said resolutely _, my mind's made up. It might be hard now, but it will be best for both of us in the long run._

Smithers started back to the entryway to get a second box. Burns followed. They passed Johan on the way. The silent manservant carried a towering stack of boxes effortlessly. Smithers glanced over his shoulder. "That man makes it look easy," he remarked.

Burns nodded. "He has a skill for that. So," he paused, "I'm guessing the discussion with Roberta didn't go smoothly?"

Smithers hoisted up a second box. "In a manner of speaking. Tense would've been an understatement."

Burns matched Smithers' pace, hands in his pockets. "I do believe, Waylon, that this is for the best. The groundbreaking will be this coming Monday, and we've got the upcoming symposium in Capital City next weekend."

Smithers dropped the box in the pile with the rest of them. "'Waylon,' eh?" he said with a wry grin. "So we're on a first name basis, Monty?"

Burns held up his hands. "Has that not been the case for quite some time, my good man?"

"I guess this is the first time I've noticed." Smithers leaned back, stretching his back. "Gah, they didn't seem so heavy at the bottom of the stairs." He flexed the opposite way, then did a few shoulder rolls. "Perhaps I should let Johan handle the rest of these."

"I think that would be a wise decision."

* * *

 **THEN**

"Roberta asked about coming to Capital City with me," Smithers remarked, not looking up from his drawing board.

"Oh," remarked Burns neutrally.

"I told her this wouldn't be the best time."

Burns felt secretly relieved.

Smithers continued. "I told her there wouldn't be any time for sight-seeing or relaxing, that it would be much more fun to go specifically for a fun trip some other time."

Burns tented his fingers out of habit, but fortunately Smithers couldn't see. _Excellent_ , he thought smugly. While he tried not to harbor any ill-will towards Roberta, he liked the idea of Smithers being able to focus solely on their plans this weekend.

Burns found himself at odds with the idea of Waylon's impending marriage. On the one hand, he felt a sense of satisfaction knowing Waylon was pleased with his fiancée. How peculiar, to actually share vicariously in the joys of another!

On the other hand, he didn't like to consider Smithers attentions focused on someone other than him. He wanted to be the epicenter in Waylon's life. Equally peculiar, because since when did he, C. Montgomery Burns care about what someone else thought of him? Bah. There was no point in going down either of those roads today.

Burns shifted his fingers from peaked, to interlaced, and clasped his palms tightly together. "You are aware, I should hope, that I demand you invite her to the groundbreaking ceremony." Burns leaned closer, his lips almost brushing Waylon's ear. "Because if you don't invite your woman to that momentous occasion then, my good man, _I_ most assuredly _will_ invite her _for you_ ," he hissed.

Smithers twitched and leaned away from Burns in mock reproach. Burns' breath was hot against his skin. "Easy! You're tickling the back of my neck."

Burns chuckled warmly and put both hands on Smithers' shoulders. He gave Smithers a friendly shake and a squeeze. "Waylon, old friend, if that is the biggest cause of concern to you, how harmonious your days must be! I envy your charmed life!"

Smithers leaned back in his chair and dropped a palm over Burns' hand. "Monty, _old friend_ ," he teased, "if that _were_ the biggest worry I had, I'd still have all my hair!"

"Pooh! We'll get you a stylish hat," Burns said, giving Smithers' shoulders another brief rub before straightening up. "No, but all seriousness, if you are lucky enough to find someone who strikes your fancy, it is your duty to treat them proper."

 _Where are you going with the Monty_? his mind screamed at him. _Don't even think about it! For the love of all that is holy, don't you dare say it!_ Burns chose his next words very carefully, but tried to make them sound casual.

"When you find someone who inspires your sentiment in such ways, hold that person close; and do so for as long as you're able. Cherish them. Life has a way of being unkind in the most unexpected ways."

* * *

 **THEN**

Smithers had asked the question out of the blue, catching Burns momentarily off guard. The fact that it wasn't even a question so much as a statement was also unexpected.

 _I was wondering if it would bother you for me to invite Roberta over for a social hour_ , Smithers had remarked.

Burns bit back the cutting reply he reflexively wanted to make, and chewed on his thumbnail for a moment. His reclusive nature made the idea of guests, particularly those _he_ did not invite, rather distasteful.

 _Do as you will_ , Burns snarled flippantly. _This is your home too, is it not?_ Without waiting to hear Smithers' reply, he spun on his heel and strode briskly out of the room.

Smithers had gone about making his little social plans, setting a date and time, playing event planner. Some event, scoffed Burns in his head, they'll merely share dinner, and wander the property about like a pair of displaced alley cats. He'd clenched his teeth out of sight of Smithers. Equally out of sight, he'd made sure the servants took extra care to clean everything the day of her visit.

Dinner at his planning was one thing, yes; the guests kept mainly to the dining hall and sitting room, where he allowed them. He preferred to maintain absolute control in all things. Letting Smithers do his own entertaining was a monumental acquiescence on his part. Roberta had better keep her calling from disrupting his household, or distracting staff.

* * *

 **THEN**

The doorbell rang, echoing through the silent manor. _She's here_ , thought Smithers excitedly. He brushed his hair back, straightened his tie, and threw on a plaid patterned vest over his white shirt.

Smithers was as eager to see Roberta as he was to give her a grand tour of the entire estate. He wanted her to see where he lived, though and Burns' request he promised he would not offer a tour of the residential wing. Burns had been quite adamant about that one. The rest of the manor and grounds Burns didn't mind her seeing, with a small exception:

 _Even the laboratory?_

 _Only your area, and only then if you must_ , Burns stipulated.

 _Absolutely. I'm dying to show Roberta the blueprints for the plant._

Now he'd have the opportunity. She was here. Smithers hurried downstairs, straightening his tie again as he went.

Smithers skidded into the entryway as Johan was issuing Roberta in. Johan held out a hand to take her coat, but she didn't even notice him. "Waylon!" she cried happily, bounding over to him. "Look at you, all gussied up tonight." They embraced, a polite hug and kiss on the cheek. "You really didn't have to make a special effort for me," she admitted as he offered her an arm.

"You're worth any effort," he smiled, tapping her lightly on the nose. She giggled, a charming, musical sound. "So, now that we have a few hours to ourselves, might I do the honor of giving you the grand tour?"

She gave a theatrically kittenish curl of her body. "Why Mister Smithers," she said, playing a fake southern accent, "I do declare that would be most enchanting."

Smithers laughed good-naturedly. "Well, then, my sweet southern belle, let's away on our grand adventure!" He linked his arm through hers, and proceeded to guide her out of the entryway, and into the main hall. "These painting here…" his voice faded as they walked on.

Unseen, Burns hunched his shoulders and looked balefully down from the landing on the second stair.


	13. Chapter 13

**THEN**

Roberta was having a delightful evening. Though she'd been to the manor once before, she really hadn't had occasion to see the true ostentatiousness of its owner's tastes. Statues and paintings lined the wall. There was a large theatre, a solarium, an enormous library, a gymnasium with tiled swimming pool…

Roberta tried not to be swept away by the grandeur. It would be easy to get carried away when everywhere one looked, there was some piece of elaborate artistry. She was surprised how blasé Waylon seemed about everything. He gestured to a sword on the wall, and explained that it was claimed to be the legendary _Excalibur_ itself.

He led her down to the laboratory, and showed her the plans he'd been working on. It looked exactly as he'd described. She could see how much time and work he'd been devoting. The table was covered in prints, documents, and hastily scribbled notes.

The only truly organized area in Smithers' workshop was his drafting table. There, everything was neatly placed, a pencil and eraser resting along the tray on the side. He had a set of rulers and compasses. A collection of abstract curved templates hung on a pegboard next to his table. _French curves_ , he explained when she picked one up curiously.

Smithers took her through the gardens and the hedge maze. (He could navigate it without getting lost now.) They went through the formal gardens and fountains, the informal gardens and "rambles."

Smithers avoided showing her kennels beyond gesturing to the building. The dogs could get worked into a frenzy by the sight of strangers. Instead, he lead her down to the stables, and rang for the horseman.

The dark haired horsemaster appeared, and smiled. He had dark, Spanish features, and kind eyes. Smithers explained he wanted to take Roberta out on a leisurely trot though the back forests, and the genial horseman agreed. He selected two mild-mannered animals, a bay for Smithers, and a chestnut for Roberta.

"I've never ridden before," Roberta admitted as the horseman placed a side-saddle on the back of the chestnut.

"Most placid of temperament, and cool of nerve," the horseman reassured her. "Just you click your tongue, and he walks. Guide with the reins, but do not worry. He knows these paths. You just relax and let him do."

Smithers swung into the saddle of his bay. "I never rode before I started working here," he admitted. "I had some off time one afternoon, so I figured, why not learn?" He settled himself comfortably. "It's not hard, the most difficult part is getting in time with the horse's motion. Otherwise, you bounce around a lot."

The horsemaster patted the chestnut's cheek. "Very smooth, this one is. A perfect complement for the beautiful young lady."

Smithers chuckled. "Easy there, Conrado. She might decide she takes a fancy to you, and leave me!"

The horseman shook his head. "No, no. She would never be to find herself another man so long as she has you." He winked at Roberta. "Look at those eyes, yes? They look only at you."

* * *

 **THEN**

The callbox for the gate rang, Johan answered it. A courier with a package for Mister Burns and-or Mister Smithers. He buzzed the delivery man in, gathered the package, and brought it to Burns.

Burns had retreated to his personal study, to read and reflect. He'd drawn the curtains, and ordered a fire built despite the warm weather. Burns found he often enjoyed the darkness. It blocked out unnecessary distractions for him. There was also something to be said for reading by firelight.

Johan knocked, then entered without waiting for permission. "This just arrived," he said, "from the Atomic Energy Commission."

Burns looked up, blue eyes flashing in the flickering light. He sat by the fire, a blanket over his legs, his shoulders and neck hunched in a predatory way. He held a thick, leather-bound book in his hands. He eyed Johan shrewdly.

"Have Smithers address this, post haste."

Johan bowed. "I believe Mister Smithers and Miss Latante are enjoying an afternoon jaunt on horseback."

Burns leaned forward menacingly. "I don't care upon _whose_ back he chooses to ride!" he spat venomously. "Why in god's name would I keep the man around if not to do his damn job? Send for the both of them, at once, and get this taken care of!"

* * *

 **THEN**

Johan saddled up Burns' fast dapple mare, and found Smithers and Roberta easily enough. They'd left a clear trail through the brush. He galloped into the clearing they'd ridden to, reigning in the mare sharply.

"Herr Burns demands your attention, forthwith," he announced to the other two riders.

Without waiting for an answer, he turned, and spurred the mare back towards the manor.

Smithers gave an apologetic glance to Roberta. "I'm sorry," he said. "I need to go." He started to follow after Johan, then paused. "Will you be able to make it back to the stables alright? Should I send for Conrado?"

Roberta waved a hand. "No," she said sullenly. "I can find my way back from here. You just go."

Smithers wheeled his horse around, and without a further word, thundered off after Johan.

Roberta sat, her heart aching in the silent grade. She reached down and stroked the chestnut's neck absent-mindedly. Joylessly she clicked her tongue, and guided her horse back to the stables.

* * *

 **THEN**

At the manor, Johan relayed Burns' instructions to Smithers and gave him the package. Get started immediately with the background requests for uranium procurement. Smithers nodded, and scurried to his lab like a rabbit into its hole.

* * *

 **THEN**

When Roberta made it back to the stable, Johan was waiting for her. He escorted her to the manor. Once inside, he gestured to the building. "You may go wherever you wish, save for the residential wing and laboratory. Herr Smithers needs to focus on his duties. I'm sure you understand." He bowed slightly.

 _Oh, I understand all right_ , thought Roberta darkly.

"Thank you, _Herr Johan_ ," she replied huffily, and stalked off. She wasn't entirely sure where she was going, and really didn't care. The trappings of Burns manor suddenly seemed a lot less impressive. Roberta paced from room to room, barely noticing where she was going. At the end of a long, dimly lit corridor, a door was slightly ajar. Without thinking, she pushed it open and walked in.

Roberta found herself in darkness. The only light came from a roaring inferno laid in a massive cut-stone fireplace. A heavy chair was sitting before the blaze, but she couldn't make out any details.

"Close that door, Miss Latante. You're letting in the light."

A match flared to life, illuminating the features of a man in the chair. Charles Montgomery Burns, himself. He touched the match to an oil-lamp, then flicked the smoldering stump into the fire.

In the lurid glow from the flames, he looked both very old, and incredibly dangerous. His legs were covered by a thick, wool blanket. A book was open across his lap.

"It's very rude to stand there gawking," he purred ominously. "Please come in, and have a seat." He gestured to an ottoman by the fire. Despite the small conflagration at the hearth, the room was decidedly chilly.

Roberta wrapped her arms around herself, and moved closer; but she didn't sit.

"I know what you're up to, old beast… old monster," she said with barely contained hostility.

Burns made a feral sound in his throat, lip curling slightly. He closed the book with a snap, and leaned towards her. "Oh yes?" he asked softly, "And what might that be? Pray tell."

"You see Waylon as a tool, a resource. You'll use him until you've gotten every last bit you can, then you'll throw him away like a spent rag." She moved closer to Burns, whose lips curled with an animal savagery.

"You come into my home as a guest, and consider yourself emboldened enough to make such accusations of me, your host." He drew his long fingers across his lips. "I don't seem to recall such audacity when you attended dinner."

Roberta's eyes narrowed, though she doubted Burns could see it.

"Oh, I catch that look, believe me," he whispered, as if reading her mind. "I can see more plainly than you know." He flopped back in his chair and rested his fingertips together. "So tell me, Miss Latante, on what grounds do you make such an accusation?"

Roberta hugged herself tighter. "I see the way you keep him like a dog on a very short leash. I didn't notice it at first. I thought this was just a job, working here. But then you order him to live under your roof!" Her voice was raising in tone and volume. "You can't let him have a moment's peace to himself. It's all about _you_! Your wants, your whims! You care _nothing_ for _anyone else_!"

She leaned over Burns, grasping the arms to his chair, her face inches from his. Her voice suddenly went quiet. "Waylon's a good man, Burns. What you're doing to him is nothing more than abuse… and I won't tolerate it."

Burns blinked in surprise, and folded his hands demurely. "My dear Roberta," he said softly, "I _invited_ your fiancé to move in, but I have never _forced_ him to do anything." Burns rose, and Roberta backed away reflexively. The blanket dropped unnoticed to the floor.

"If you think, for one moment, that I would have your dear _Smithers_ do anything he didn't want to, you are sorely mistaken." He drew himself up to his full height. "You call me a beast, I am but a man. _Your_ Waylon wants this. Ambition is part of his nature. He has made his own choices through all of this."

Burns gestured widely with the book. "Oh, believe me, I could put the screws on him and make him squirm under my thumb…" Burns paused for emphasis. "But _that_ is not the sum total of _my_ nature."

He thrust the book at Roberta. " _Pygmalion_. George Bernard Shaw. A signed copy! Take it. A gift."

Roberta kept her arms folded tightly. "I'm familiar with the story."

Burns held the book out a moment longer before releasing it his hand. The book landed flat on the floor with a resounding slam. He stared, his blue eyes boring into Roberta's pertinacious brown ones.

"So be it," he hissed. "I dare say you have overstayed your welcome."

He turned dismissively and flopped back into his chair. "Johan will show you out."

"I can find my own way."

"As you wish." Burns folded his hands across his chest. "I do hope, Miss Latante, you are of a more agreeable disposition when next you come calling to Burns Manor."

Roberta tossed her head. " _Mister_ Burns, it will be a cold day in hell before you have to worry about me visiting here again." With that, she whirled about, and left, slamming the door behind her.


	14. Chapter 14

**THEN**

"What on earth happened, Monty?!" Smithers demanded.

"She thinks I keep you here as my pet and slave, and took umbrage at such."

Smithers rubbed his temples and put his head in his hands. He felt a headache coming on. "Did you even _try_ to explain things to her?"

Burns rubbed his hands together petulantly. "I tried, but I am quite sure she didn't believe me." He shifted his weight from one foot to another.

"This!" Smithers wailed, "this right here is the reason I'm losing all my hair!" He turned to face Burns. "Couldn't you two play nice together, or at least be civil with one another!?"

Burns sulked. "I was trying to enjoy some time to myself. She didn't have to come snooping in like some… snoop!"

Smithers groaned. There would not be enough aspirin in the world for what he'd feel later. "I'll be perfectly honest," he said, massaging his head, "I have no idea what the trouble is between you two. She's my fiancée, you're my boss. Yet any time I even mention one to the other, I wind up getting the worst of it!" Smithers slapped an open palm on the table. "There shouldn't even be any reason for an overlap. I don't even understand where the tension is coming from!"

 _Isn't it obvious?_ Burns thought irritably.

"It's like you're in a competition over me, or something. There's enough Waylon to go around. I can be your colleague, and still be her fiancé. It's _not even the same thing!_ " he yelled, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

Burns rubbed the bridge of his nose. It wouldn't be just Smithers who had a massive headache in a short while. _Oh, my dear friend, if you only knew!_ he thought ruefully. _There isn't enough of you to go around._ Burns closed his eyes and pinched the spot between his eyes.

"How could you two go from cordial to screaming at one another in just two meetings!?"

It was a rhetorical question, Burns decided, and he didn't feel like answering. Smithers continued to rant and bemoan the tension.

Burns groaned. The words were on the tip of his tongue. _She's jealous because she knows. Or, at least, if she doesn't know she has a damn good idea_. Burns swallowed them down. Time to redirect the attention away from him.

"You did invite her to the Groundbreaking Ceremony, did you not?"

Smithers raised his head. "Yes…"

Burns nodded. "And I daresay she has not spurned the invitation, even now?"

"We spoke on the telephone the other night. She's still going."

Burns started pacing. "How is she feeling about the Capital City trip?"

"She's pretty mad that I'm not inviting her, but I think she'll get over it."

"Waylon, my good man, I shall make a concession for you. At the ceremony, I promise I shall not get in the way of you and lady, Roberta. By that same token, however, I expect nothing less than your attendance at my side when we take the first shovelful of earth." Burns continued to walk back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. "I will expect you to fulfil your required duties as esteemed colleague and collaborator in this public…" he waved a hand, trying to think of the word, "… celebration."

Burns faced Smithers again. "At the same time, I shall not take offense if you see it best to focus your informal attentions to your fiancée. This is, of course, a monumental compromise on my part. If I had my druthers, I'd find you devotedly at my side all evening."

Smithers stood up, and walked over to Burns. His face was weary, but his eyes had a sparkle of mischievousness. "'Devotedly,' eh?"

Burns raised an eyebrow. "Would you prefer 'proudly?' 'Enthusiastically?'" His lips curled in a playful smile. "'Tenderly?'" he offered innocently.

"Jeeze, Monty," Smithers laughed, blushing profusely. "Oh, I don't know. All of the above, I suppose?"

Montgomery Burns felt light on his feet. All of the above? Yes, please. It was the first time Waylon had ever said anything like that before. Burns took a deep breath, and tried not to let his feelings show on his face. He felt his cheeks warm a tad bit, but complimented himself for keeping his mouth a prim, straight line. If there was anything Monty Burns always desired, it was to keep his cards close to his chest.

* * *

 **THEN**

The ceremony went off without a hitch. True to his word, Burns let Smithers and Roberta have their time together, and in exchange, Roberta didn't balk when Smithers attended to the formal requirements.

Johan followed at Burn's heel, not speaking much, lest his accident upset some of the more anti-German members of the crowd. Burns read his speech that Smithers had prepared, the golden shovel (it was real gold!) was used to turn over the first scoop of earth. Smithers' initial background screening for Uranium acquisition was submitted.

The weather cooperated beautifully, the caterers provided an ample spread of various foods and drink. Neither the owners, sponsors, nor attendees could've asked for a more perfectly run event. Roberta and Smithers appeared to have patched up whatever differences they'd had, and for the time being at least, everything seemed to be on an even keel.

* * *

 **THEN**

"Have you ever been to Capital City before," Burns asked brightly as Johan carried their bags to the Rolls Royce limousine he'd parked out front. The summer sun was just barely cresting the hill, but Johan had taken the liberty of packing everything the night before.

The only personal item carried by either man was Smithers' leather satchel. He held it by the handle in his left hand. "Once; with my parents when I was young."

"What do you remember," Burns asked, cheerfully.

Smithers shrugged. "Not much, to be honest. We went to the zoo, and the aquarium I think." He handed his satchel to Johan, who put it in the back seat between the two men's seats. "Honestly I don't recall more than that. It was a long time ago."

Burns drummed his fingertips together. "I think you'll enjoy yourself. The symposium is taking place at the Palace Hotel. For the sake of convenience, I took the liberty of securing a suite at the top floor."

Several months ago, the idea of staying at the Palace Hotel would've left Smithers floored. Hearing it now, he nodded thoughtfully. He'd gotten used to the splendor and extravagance that Burns surrounded himself with. Quite used to it, in fact. He no longer gave a second thought about ordering Johan to secure an item for him, or prepare package some files for the mail.

Living in the manor had desensitized Smithers to the opulence of the so-called 'Burns lifestyle.' Like the paintings on the walls, or the statues that filled the various galleries, Johan had become just another fixture of the manor to Smithers.

Johan held the door open; Smithers and Burns climbed in. He shut the door behind them, and climbed into the driver's seat.

The limo purred to life. Burns rolled up the window between the driver's compartment and their own, then sat back and folded his hands behind his head. "Well, Waylon, my man, I think you will enjoy the city. I'll point out some of my favorite places to you."

Smithers was digging in his satchel for something. "I thought you said there wouldn't be time for sightseeing," he remarked, as he pulled out a large manila envelope.

"Oh, there won't be," Burns replied casually. He looked out the tinted window as they rolled out the west gate, and on to the main road. "But from our vantage point at the Palace, you'll see most the city." He smiled. "Our suite is on the fifty-eighth floor. You can see everything from up there."

"You've stayed there before, I take it?" Smithers asked. He pulled several pages of information on radiation protection standards, and started reviewing them; only half-listening to Burns.

"I have, but never with a shared room." He stretched his legs out. "Oh, I mean Johan stays there too, of course, but I let him field his own lodgings. My only requirement for him is that he never be inaccessible if I need him." Burns stared out the window. "I am highly selective in the company I keep."

Smithers didn't reply. He proof-read the first few pages and passed them over to Burns. Articles and preamble for the upcoming discussions. Critics of the Atomic Energy Commission were complaining about insufficient standards for safety in new nuclear generating facilities.

Concerned citizens worried about the fact there was no formal regulating group that oversaw and inspected safety at the current and proposed plants. Investors countered that the current standards were well and above minimum safety requirements. Tensions were mounting on both sides.

The Atomic Energy Commission was drawing flak from all quarters.

Burns' main objective was to ensure that the construction of the Springfield plant was not compromised. Smithers pointed out if there were any requirements that might come to be passed in the near future, it would behoove them both to be ahead of the curve. _Build it right the first time, and we won't have to waste money on upgrades later_ , he pointed out.

As they rode, Smithers and Burns discussed their primary objectives, and decided on how they'd present their argument. Considering Smithers' plans had already been approved by the Atomic Energy Commission, neither of them expected much difficulty with the remainder of the project. Smithers was nothing if not meticulous in his work. Every _i_ dotted, every _t_ crossed. There was no detail that had escaped his keen eye.

Burns enjoyed watching Smithers work. He liked to see the passion with which the man threw himself into the projects. _This suits you far better than teaching_ , Burns remarked one day as he watched over Smithers shoulder.

Smithers had looked up and smiled. _It does, doesn't it_. Smithers had even added a kennel structure on the plant diagram, a proper place to store the hounds. _I'm thinking we should electrify the outer fence,_ he added. _Just for good measure_.

Ah, Smithers really did have a knack for this, Burns reflected as he watched the countryside scroll past the limo windows.


	15. Chapter 15

**THEN**

The Palace Hotel was aptly named: an ornate towering structure boasting classic the timeless art deco construction of the 1920s. Triangular shapes to the arches at the top level gave the building an appearance of wearing a crown. Grooved support columns and wide, flat stairs lead up to the front entrance.

Burns stepped out proudly, followed by Smithers with his satchel. He strode purposefully up the front steps, head high, not even bothering to glance at the concierge who held the door. Smithers tried to keep his gaze straight ahead, emulating Burns' detached bearing.

Johan was handling matters with the valet and bellhop. He slipped quickly past Burns and rang the bell at the front desk. A crisply dressed, lean-faced manager appeared smartly. "Herr Burns and Herr Smithers, for the Tacoma Heights Nuclear Energy Symposium," Johan whispered to the man.

Smithers took this brief moment steal a look around the lobby.

The art deco theme was naturally continued inside. Bold geometric outlines in rich yellows and vivid reds defined the style. Various shades of marble had been inlaid into the plaster forms, with gold-painted trim, and polished chrome accents. The vaulted lobby ceiling was supported by octagonal pillars of some warm, brown stone. The ceiling itself was textured tin, ornately painted in the same reds, yellows and golds.

The lighting was provided by a myriad of perfectly round chandeliers, the bulbs exposed but opaque, radiated out like spokes on a wheel. A row of elevators flanked one wall, their doors bronze-colored and polished to a mirror-like reflectiveness. A light fixture above each one, shaped in miniature of the circular chandeliers, indicated whether the car was rising or descending.

The front desk itself appeared to be sculpted from one solid piece of grey stone, basalt maybe. The edges were trimmed with chrome fenders. The desk lamps resting upon it were a burnished bronze, like the elevator doors, with red glass hoods.

Everything reminded Smithers of something straight out of a book he read once, _The Great Gatsby_.

Burns was saying something to him. He started, shaken out of his reverie.

"-and the Symposium will begin tonight at seven o'clock," Burns continued, clearly unaware Smithers had missed the first few words.

"That sounds, perfect, Monty," he remarked, hoping his statement fit with Burns' previous statements.

"Yes, Waylon, I much agree. So glad you are onboard. Fortunately, I made sure Johan packed appropriate attire for the evening."

 _Wait, what?_ Smithers thought somewhat frantically. _I just agreed to do what!?_ His mind frantically started making lists of possible things Burns could've said.

"Come along, Smithers," Burns crowed, "Lots to do before then!" He practically capered over to the elevators.

Smithers shifted his satchel to his other shoulder, and hurried to catch up. "Absolutely," he agreed in bemusement.

* * *

 **THEN**

Burns stood admiring himself in the full-length mirror of his bedroom. He wore a coffee brown Victorian waistcoat, and black cravat over a white shirt. His pants were a sandy grey, and his shoes matched the coffee tones of his vest.

The suite they shared took up one corner of the top floor, allowing a substantial view of Capital City and the surrounding area. The foyer opened into a large sitting room. Off to one side was a fairly complete kitchen. The main room continued onward to a balcony. The two bedrooms were on either side of the main room, allowing either occupant the maximum amount of privacy. Each bedroom, like the main room, had a private balcony.

Burns' room was to the right, and Smithers' to the left. Each bedroom boasted a kind-sized bed, and private bath.

The main room was elaborately decorated in the same hues as the lobby. Two couches sat on either side of a coffee table, there was a dining area by the kitchen, and a (to Burns' delight) a grand piano sat by the side window. _Oh, perhaps I'll have to tickle the ivories later tonight_ , he thought enthusiastically.

Despite the fact they were only staying two nights, Burns had seen to it that Johan packed a great deal of clothing and personal possessions. Smithers wondered how it had all been brought here, but decided not to ask. Their respective closets were filled with their clothes. Even the chest of drawers had been filled.

Burns strutted and admired himself like a peacock, while Smithers got dressed.

Smithers had brought all his old clothes from his apartment when he moved to the manor, but to his surprise, he found most of the items he thought he'd packed had somehow not arrived. Instead, he was greeted by an almost completely new wardrobe when he and Burns arrived at their suite.

An evening outfit had already been laid out on the bed for him, assumedly by Johan. It was almost identical to Burns'. The main differences was Smithers cravat: red instead of black.

He dressed quickly. Just like his duster, these clothes seemed to be perfectly tailored for him. He stretched his arms, and felt the fabric move freely across his shoulders. A perfect fit, roomy without being slovenly. He examined himself in the mirror. _Damn, I look good!_ He thought, proudly, straightening the lapels. It was true what Monty said. Clothes did make the man.

He came out of his bedroom, trying to hide his smile. "What do you think, Monty?" he asked, giving a quick twirl.

Burns put a hand to his mouth thoughtfully.

"You know, I thought that would be of the utmost style on you, but I fear something is lacking in the finish."

Smithers face fell. "Oh," he said deflatedly, his head dropped.

Burns regarded him curiously. "Come now, Waylon. Stiff upper lip, my man." He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small cardboard box. "I think this might make it right."

Smithers took the box questioningly.

Burns watched him, eyes shining with a peculiar inner light.

Smithers gently lifted the lid off. Inside was a nest of protective cotton. He carefully removed the soft white cushions, then gasped in astonishment. He cupped a hand to his mouth. "Monty! I can't accept this!"

Bundled safely in the cotton was a gold pocket watch, the cover sculpted into the head of a proud lion, a full mane framing its regal face. The deep-set eyes shone with their own inner fire. ("Black diamonds," Burns explained.) A matching gold chain was coiled in the cotton beneath. "It must've cost a fortune! No, Monty, this is too much!" He held the box back to Burns.

Burns shook his head, and gently pushed Smithers' hands back, cupping them over the watch. "You can, and you will. It's no less than you deserve." He tilted his head. "Take it out and look at it."

Smithers sat down heavily into a convenient chair, and lifted the pocket watch out. He held it by the chain, watching the way the light caught on intricately sculpted gold.

"Open it," prompted Burns.

Smithers squeezed the crown gently, and the lion's face flipped down, revealing the watch face within. On the inside cover of the lid was an engraving and a date. _"To Waylon Joseph Smithers; For not every man's heart beat is that of the Lion. Forever as Yours; CMB."_ The date was the day Smithers had first started working for Burns.

"Put it on then," Burns coaxed gently.

Speechlessly, Smithers attached the chain around the button loop of his waistcoat, and slid the watch into his pocket. It settled with a comfortable weight against his side.

He looked up into Burns' clear blue eyes. "You know I can never repay you for this, right Monty?"

Burns waved a hand dismissively. "Have I ever asked you to?"

"No…"

"And I won't. It's a gift, and I do it because it occurs to me to act thusly." He shrugged. "No, don't ask me to explain why. The eccentricities of wealth, eh?"

Smithers ran his fingers of the watch in his pocket. _I'm not so sure about that_ , he thought slowly. He watched as Burns turned and darted back to his room to finish some last minute adjustments with the ruffles of his tie. Smithers took the watch out and looked at it. The lion's face was regal but not snarling. Proud, yet calm. He reread the engraving, and traced the words with his thumb. _Forever as Yours._

Smithers wondered how he should interpret that. There were several ways he could, he mused. There was, however, one that stood out above all the rest: a meaning he wanted to believe above all others. He rubbed a hand across his chest absentmindedly, closed the watch, and gently slipped it back in his pocket.

* * *

 **THEN**

Side by side, Waylon Smithers and C. Montgomery Burns strode into the banquet hall, an immaculately dressed Johan following at their heel. Johan, of course, was wearing black. The informal meeting was held a few hours before the actual symposium, to give the guests a chance to get to know each other.

Smithers and Burns mingled freely, not staying exactly at one another's sides, but not straying too far apart either. At seven o'clock, the group moved into a decent-sized auditorium, and the convention began.

Burns sat, with Smithers to his right, and Johan to his left.

In addition to the concerned public, more than a handful of lawmakers were in attendance, and even, Burns noted, a few congressmen. He'd have to lay it on thick with them tomorrow. Tonight was merely the openings and preamble.

Smithers took a handful of notes, reaching behind Burns to pass filled pages over to Johan. Johan dutifully filed them.

During one five minute interval Burns finally had to ask: "Waylon, why on earth to you feel the need to tote that bedraggled shoulder bag with you whenever you're working? You don't need to carry things like a common man." He gestured to Johan. "What do you think I keep him around for?"

 _If you're so insistent on such apparel, I could get you a far better one_ , he added in his mind.

Smithers shifted his weight a little.

"My father gave me this when I first started working," Smithers replied. Burns noticed how Smithers grabbed the pack somewhat protectively. "It used to be his."

 _Nostalgia_ , Burns thought reflectively. Smithers had an interesting way about him. In some aspects, he seemed so willing to move forward. But some things, Burns supposed, had value beyond the present.

Burns could understand that, to a degree. That's why he'd had that watch made specially for Waylon. It was sculpted and assembled by the finest Swiss craftsmen. It had taken weeks to finish. Burns had worried it wouldn't arrive from Europe before their trip. Fortunately, it had.

Burns let his mind wander away from the current presenter's dull slideshow. The watch was something his partner would be able to cherish for decades to come. On some level, he knew Smithers had the ability to appreciate such things. Smithers understood value, both financial and extrinsic. Burns knew Smithers would cherish such gifts for decades to come; he had seen it in the way the man regarded him.

It wasn't even so much the watch itself, Burns knew. It was the fact that the pocket watch came from him! Sentiment was also why he had it engraved. Oh, it took him over a month to figure out how to close his inscription. He didn't want to say too much… he didn't want to say too little. Burns wanted Smithers to know how much he meant, how important he'd become in Burns' life.

The money was nothing to Burns. The hard part had been in figuring out what to say without getting sappy or ingratiating. It had been a challenge. Eventually, he'd decided on the closing of _Forever as Yours_ , his initials, and the date Smithers had signed the contract.

Burns wanted to put a better date, a real anniversary of sorts, but they didn't have such a thing between them. Absentmindedly he chewed a thumbnail. It was maddening sometimes. What more did he have to do to get Smithers to understand his feelings?

He softly punched a fist into his palm with a hiss.

Smithers and Johan both turned to look at him.

"Is something amiss, Monty," Smithers asked with concern.

Johan's brow furrowed, silently asking the same question.

Burns made a dismissive gesture. "Never you mind boys," he whispered. "Never you mind."


	16. Chapter 16

**THEN**

Smithers hung his waistcoat in the closet, carefully placing his watch in his hip pocket. He took off his shoes, and tossed them beside his bed, then he went to find Burns.

Burns stood on the balcony across. He'd left the doors to the main room wide open, the weather outside was positively balmy. He had his face turned into the breeze, eyes closed. He sniffed the air delicately, and exhaled with a smile. "Ah," he remarked, not bothering to open his eyes. "Is there any better scent than urban progress on a hot summer night?"

Smithers padded over, and stood beside him. You'd think it would be cold all the way up here, Smithers noted. Perhaps it had something to do with the still air, and heat rising up from the concrete jungle below.

The city lights splayed out before them. The sounds of metropolitan night-life audible but muted by the distance. Smithers ran his hand over the shape of the watch in his pocket. He felt the contours of the lion's head through the cloth.

Smithers put his hands on the railing, and looked down. More than five hundred feet below, the cars zipped back and forth, tiny pin-prick taillights winking. The streetlights cast a yellow glow. He saw a few people walking. The Capital City, the Windy Apple, never truly slept.

He wished that the same could be said of him. Smithers yawned, stretched his arms, and arched his back. He was rewarded with a series of satisfying pops from his spine. "Ah," he sighed, "that does feel better." He looked out over the city. "I'm just not used to sitting still for so long. Those chairs they set up: not very comfortable."

Burns nodded, eyes still closed. "Hard as a moneylender's heart," he agreed.

The two men stood, side by side, not speaking. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence, Smithers thought mellowly. Quite the opposite. It was a _comfortable_ silence. One of those moments where no one needed to say anything. He cracked his wrists and, in-spite of himself, yawned again.

Burns opened one eye. "Tired are we?"

"It's been a long day."

"It has, hasn't it." Burns looked relaxed, but keenly awake. He held a manner of repose, but not fatigue. He closed his eyes, raised his head, and took a deep breath. He held it for a few seconds before exhaling, then looked at Smithers.

"You know," he began quietly, "back when I first came to know you as a student, I thought I saw something in you. I requested you assigned to my lab. There, I confirmed my suspicions. There is extraordinary potential in you." He stared out over the cityscape. "I see something of myself in you… but more than that, I'm starting to see something of you in _me_." He tapped his chest. "You put that idea of a modern, atom- eh, nuclear power plant in my head-"

("It's okay, you can say 'atom mill,'" Smithers said with a smirk.)

"-I knew there was no one else I could ever find for the job."

Smithers chuckled. "That's not the way I remember it."

Burns raised an eyebrow. "Really?" he asked, straight-faced.

Smithers nodded. "As I recall, you told me if I didn't sign your contract right then and there, you'd easily find someone else."

Burns sidled closer to Smithers and draped an arm casually around the other man's waist. "Ah, my dear Waylon," he murmured softly. "I lied."

Smithers felt the weight and warmth of Burns' arm across his back, but he didn't pull away. He put both hands on the railing, and leaned slightly towards Burns.

"Have you lied to me before?"

Burns gave a slight bob of his head. "On occasion; yes."

Smithers recoiled, but didn't extricate himself from Burns' cradling grasp. "Why?" he demanded.

"Isn't it obvious?"

Smithers turned a shoulder towards Burns. "Hmph. No. It's not!"

Burns wrapped himself closer to the indignant Smithers. He leaned his chest against Smithers' back and put a hand on Smithers' shoulders.

Smithers nonresistingly allowed himself to be turned till he faced Burns. He looked into Burns' eyes. Those sage, clear eyes. The mild wind ruffled Burns' hair. His face was drawn and unreadable. Smithers realized Burns' arm was still around his waist, hand on the small of his back.

Smithers felt his palms begin to sweat.

"I lied… because I didn't wish to reveal the truth." Burns brushed a strand of his hair out of his face. "People lie all the time," he said slowly. "They lie to others… and they lie to themselves."

Smithers' hand felt slick on the balustrade. His mind tried to protest, and he pushed back against Burns' grasp. _Why are you still standing here?_ Part of his mind screamed at him. _Why are you struggling?_ the other half screamed back.

He was still waging an internal war when Burns pulled him closer, and covered Smithers' mouth with his.

Smithers knew he should leave then. Run to his room and lock the door. There were a thousand good reasons to bolt, and never look back…

… There was, however, one reason to stay. Arguably it wasn't even a very good reason, but it was the one that won out.

* * *

 **THEN**

 _People lie all the time._

 _At least when Roberta and I consummate our marriage, it will be true when I say I've never been with another woman before._

* * *

 **THEN**

Smithers woke slowly, blissfully. He kept his eyes closed, and snuggled deeper under the blanket, pulling it over his head to block out the light. His back brushed up against the warm skin of Charles Montgomery Burns; the man also slept, facing away from Smithers and snoring softly.

Smithers relished the sensation of skin-on-skin. It wasn't like anything he'd ever felt before, but it was exactly as he imagined it. Maybe even better! Smithers smiled to himself. In the back corner of his mind, he knew he should get up. He should get dressed and hang his head in guilt… but he couldn't. Not when this felt so right after all those years of nothing feeling right at all.

Head still under the cover he rolled over, and reached an arm over the sleeping form beside him.

Burns stirred slightly at his touch, and stretched. "Ah, morning is it?" he asked sleepily, stroking Smithers' hand.

"I believe it is."

"Ah, well, nothing to be gained by wasting the day." Burns pushed the blankets off and stood up. Without a stitch or a hesitation, he walked over to the chest of drawers and began setting out some clothes. Smithers pushed the blankets down to his waist, but kept his lower half covered.

Burns looked over his shoulder. "Aren't you getting up, Waylon?"

Smithers held the blankets bunched up to protect his modesty. Burns' informal detachment made Smithers feel all the more exposed. He pulled the blankets higher up his torso. _Oh Waylon_ , he thought to himself, and groaned softly.

Burns paused his morning ritual and regarded Smithers with a mixture of concern and confusion.

"Oh bother, Waylon. What's wrong?"

Smithers felt his face wrinkle. He tried to keep his emotions hidden. He didn't succeed.

"You're so blasé about everything right now!"

Burns' brow creased. "Yes. Choosing the day's wear is hardly something to get worked up about."

Smithers pulled the blanket to his chest with his left hand. "No, about _this_ ," he exclaimed emphatically, gesturing towards himself, then Burns.

Montgomery Burns' face was the very picture of detachment. He looked from Smithers, to himself, then back again. "What on earth about 'this'?" he asked blandly.

Smithers narrowed his eyes.

"I'm no friend of Dorothy's," he said quickly. He felt color rising to his cheeks.

Burns snorted. "Who ever said you were?"

"I'm no invert!"

Burns sat down on the bed. "I wouldn't care if you are!" he snapped in frustration. "By god, Waylon: for one who never cared for labels, suddenly you're all bent over silly phrases!" Burns put his hand on his bare chest. " _I've_ never let myself become burdened by the trappings of society; some muckity-muck somewhere telling me whom I _may_ and _may not_ chose to have relations with. Rubbish!" Burns made an encompassing gesture. "I've enjoyed the conquest of both fair sexes, and am clearly none the worse for it."

 _Conquests_ , Smithers repeated the word in his head. He felt his blood start to pound in his head. _Conquests?_

"CONQUESTS?!" he screamed at Burns, throwing off the blanket, his rage boiling over. He leapt to his feet and thrust his face into Burns' space. Monty flinched away, reflexively.

Smithers loomed over the bed, flanks heaving, heart thundering in his chest. "Is that all I am to you? Another notch in your belt? Another pair of boots under your bed?"

Burns nodded. "Yes…" then his head dropped. "No," he said softly.

Smithers stood up, grabbing his head. He paced the room like a caged animal. "Yes, no…" He knotted his fingers into what little hair he had left. "Which the hell is it, Monty?"

Burns sat on the edge of the bed, head hung low. "No," he mutterd.

"No?" Smithers demanded, prowling in front of him.

"No," Burns replied, not meeting Smithers' eyes. "You weren't just a 'conquest.' Not some prize to be won, then discarded after the thrill was gone." Burns looked up. His eyes held such an expression of remorse that Smithers paused, taken back. Burns folded his hands together between his knees, the picture of utter dejection.

His blue eyes looked up, imploringly.

 _Damn me_ , Smithers thought sadly, as he felt his wrath slipping away. He hated to see that look on anyone's face. On Burns' face, it was heart-wrenching. He threw himself down in the chair by the dresser, and massaged the bridge of his nose. At least from this distance, without his glasses, he couldn't see that look so clearly.

Burns hung his head, and continued. "I've always strived to never let my feelings get in the way of my work. I can use people, yes; and I can also throw them away… But I can't do that with you!" He looked over to Smithers. "I want you in my life… no, more than that. I need you in my life! Around you, each day is a new joy. Around you, I can be… _Happy…_ again."

Smithers continued to rest his head in his hand.

"It's not that simple. I have to marry Roberta. It's how it has to be. Two men, together? And what if, god forbid, one of them wanted to start a family? It's not natural." He covered his face with his hands. _All my life, all I ever wanted was to be a husband and father_. Smithers had always held onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, if he tried hard enough, he could come to feel what he knew he was supposed to feel towards women.

He rubbed his temples.

Two smooth, slight hands covered his, gently lifting them down from his face.

Burns was kneeling on the floor before him, looking up dolefully. The monarch of the atom, humbled before his architect. Smithers tried to pull away, but Burns held his hands in a firm yet tender grasp.

"Oh, Monty," Smithers said ruefully, "I feel… I don't even know what I feel."

( _Probably the same way I feel when I think about the fact I know you'll marry Roberta_ , Burns thought.)

Burns sunk down beside Smithers, and rested his cheek on the man's knee.

Smithers reached down, absentmindedly stroking Burns' silvery hair.

"The real devil of it is," Smithers began, "is that I don't regret any of this at all." He turned his hazel eyes towards Burns. "Does that make me a horrible beast?"

Burns shook his head. "No, Waylon. You are merely but a man." He stood, offering a hand to Smithers. "Please," he asked, "we really should get dressed."

Smithers let Burns pull him up. He started to leave, but Burns grabbed him by the arm. "Don't ever doubt that what I feel is real, Waylon," Burns implored him. "While I know it might just be a little while, you've already brought me more than a lifetime of joy. If you ever doubt that, read that inscription in your watch, and maybe some years the line, you'll still remember me."


	17. Chapter 17

**THEN**

The remainder of the weekend passed relatively quickly. Smithers had expected things to be awkward between him and Burns, but found that after their 'discussion' that Saturday morning, everything settled back to the way it was.

Or, more accurately, almost back to the way it was.

Smithers felt himself more at ease around Burns. While he'd already been comfortable in the man's company, their relationship had taken on a deeper, more personal connection. Neither one of them talked about their night together. There didn't seem to be a need.

Back at the manor, things continued to churn along as they had before. Smithers came up with plans, and Burns found ways to execute them. Applications went out, approvals came back. The construction was ahead of schedule, and on budget; something Burns was immensely pleased about.

Smithers found himself having to spend more and more time at the construction site. Their project manager, Ryan, was easy to work with. Slowly the ground was leveled, filled with holes, then the holes lined with concrete foundations. He felt a paternal satisfaction as he watched the nuclear plant take shape.

When he wasn't busy, which admittedly wasn't often, Smithers and Roberta spent time together. They'd planned an autumn wedding at the Springfield Glen Country Club. She wanted an outdoor wedding by a lake, with the festive colors of the changing season. Initially she'd been worried. _How will we afford it_ , Roberta had first asked as they toured the Country Club.

 _With all the money I'm saving_ , Smithers replied proudly. _We'll have you the very wedding you've always dreamed of, m'lady_. He kissed her hand, and gave her a wink.

It was true too. He rarely had to think of bills, living at the manor accounted for most of his basic needs. In addition to their wedding, he was looking at some real-estate just east of the river. Springfield had slowly been expanding. There was a new neighborhood that had recently been developed. The homes were single-story ranch dwellings, with front yards _and_ back yards! It would be a perfect place to raise a family.

One afternoon, he left work early and met with a realtor. The man showed him several homes. One, a neat place with three bedrooms and two baths appealed immensely. A room for him and Roberta, one for the children, and one he could convert into a study. Or, if they wound up having a daughter and a son, each child could have their own room. He didn't mind forfeiting his study. He could always claim a part of the basement if he had to.

Smithers pulled out his checkbook and wrote the real-estate agent a check for the full amount. The man's jaw dropped. He stared at the check like he'd never seen one before.

Smithers gave him a smug look. _It won't bounce, if that's what you're worried about_ , he said with a hint of Burns' arrogance.

The man pocketed the check. Two days later, Waylon Smithers had the deed to a new home. He thought about telling Roberta, but decided to keep it a secret. Partially he wanted to surprise her, but admittedly he also didn't want to move out of the manor just yet. He knew he'd have to soon enough, but he was in no rush to leave Burns' company.

After their trip to the Symposium in Capital City, Smithers had worried it would complicate things between them. If anything, it seemed to have eased the tension. He couldn't fathom why. Perhaps, he mused, it was because his friendship with Monty was so different from his relationship with Roberta. It was as if compartments had been added to his brain, a special place for all things Roberta, and a different, special place for all things Monty. For the first time in that he could remember, he didn't have to feel like he was living a lie.

Though there hadn't been a repeat of their liaison at Palace Hotel, their dynamic had been irrevocably changed. There were the occasional sidelong glances, or the way their hands would sometimes touch in passing. A wink here, a blush there…

Smithers had started trying to decide what he'd get for Burns' birthday. _There must be more to life than having everything_ , he thought as he rode his horse through the forests at the edge of the estate. _What can I possibly give to the man who has everything?_ He paused at the northwest corner, and looked across the hills.

 _You could give him your heart_ , his mind suggested deviously. Smithers shook his head. No, Burns already has it; and Roberta has the rest. He wouldn't take what he'd given away from either one. He pulled his pocket watch out of his hip pocket, and checked the time. It was getting close to dinner. He turned his bay gelding, and set off back for the stables. Perhaps, Smithers thought as he rode, he could balance this out between Monty and Roberta. Maybe, just maybe, there was enough 'Smithers' to go around.

* * *

 **THEN**

Roberta smiled as she held her nephew Robert in her arms. _He's named after you_ , Charlotte admitted. The two sisters had always been close. Charlotte had volunteered to help Roberta with her dress shopping.

"It's the most important day of your life," Charlotte said with delight. "You've got to make it special. But don't let Waylon see the dress. Just tell him the colors, and you can help him pick out a tuxedo, but it's bad luck if he sees you in it beforehand."

"Bad luck if he sees me in it, or just if he sees it?" Roberta asked.

Charlotte giggled and pointed to a beautiful, long-sleeved dress of patterned lace. "I'm not sure, but you wouldn't want to chance it either way!"

Baby Robbie giggled, looking at his mother with wide eyes. Roberta kissed him on the cheek, and made a cooing sound, eliciting squeals of laughter from the child.

"I'm so glad to see things are better between you and Waylon." Charlotte clucked her tongue. "You two make such a perfect couple, it broke my heart to see you two at odds last spring."

Roberta shrugged. "I think we came to an understanding."

"I still can't believe you yelled at Old Man Burns! Hah, that must've been a sight!"

Roberta handed Robbie back to his mother and examined a high-collared gown carefully.

"Actually, never mind, I _can_ believe it," Charlotte laughed. "I still can't believe though, that you've turned down every invitation to go the manor since then."

Roberta turned. "Charlotte," she said firmly, "that Mister Burns is a wretched brute. He doesn't care for anything or anyone but himself." She hung the dress back on its rack. "I look at him, I can only think of one thing."

"What's that?" Charlotte asked.

Roberta's dark eyes narrowed, and she recited a single line from an ancient tale:

"' _Now I have become Death, the destroyer of the worlds_.'"


	18. Chapter 18

**THEN**

Burns handed the unopened envelope back to Smithers.

"I know what this is," he said flatly, "and I'll tell you now, the answer is 'no.'"

Rather miffed, Smithers put the envelope back in his satchel. "Well, why not," he sulked. "It's important to me."

Burns bared his teeth slightly. "Ah, my dear _dear_ friend, do you think I haven't lived long enough to recognize a wedding invitation when I see it." He sneered contemptuously at Smithers' satchel. "I have no more intention of going to your nuptial day that I would for anyone else."

"And why not?" asked Smithers sharply.

Burns held up his hand. "Two reasons. One: Roberta will be as welcoming to me as she would be to the Red Death himself," he ticked off on one finger. "And two!..." his voice trailed off. "Two…" Burns folded his hands behind his back and regarded one of the sculptures set on a pedestal. It showed a naked King Neptune trident pointed down, clutching onto the mane of hippocamp as the animal bucked and roiled in the waves. "'Notice Neptune, though; taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity; which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me,'" he recited thoughtfully.

"What's that got to do with anything."

 _What does it indeed? Can't you see it?_ He ran a finger along the sculpture thoughtfully. "Don't you know anything of classic history?"

He ignored the frustrated look on Smithers' face and continued. "Why, the Duke of Ferrara, of course! A man after my own heart! Rich, proud, not allowing himself to be swayed by emotional attachment. A man I consider myself to be. Immortalized in Robert Browning's poem _My Last Duchess_." _God, Smithers could be thick-headed at times_ , Burns thought huffily.

"So you're saying you don't want to come to my wedding, and you're quoting rhymes as a reason to say no."

Burns held up a finger. "Iambic pentameter, Waylon," he did his best to look wounded, "though I suppose you could call it a rhyme if you must."

Burns looked into the eyes of his friend and companion. Smithers' cool hazel eyes revealed little. Over the weeks of living together, Burns noted, Smithers had taken on some "Burnsian" characteristics. He'd gotten much better and not letting his face reveal what he felt. Burns was both proud of, and annoyed _by_ , that newly mastered ability.

It was also to Burns' chagrin that he could feel some of Waylon's traits affecting him as well. Part of that was reflected in his refusal to attend the wedding. After all, the 'old' C. M. Burns would've had Roberta kidnapped and shipped to some obscure locale with no hope of ever returning. Possibly, if he were feeling particularly irritated, he would've just had her killed.

The extinguishing of life was not something he considered himself above.

He'd gotten the impression Smithers was a _poof_ from the get-go. His intuition was seldom wrong in such matters. How surprised he'd been to learn the man was not only involved with a woman, but engaged to be married! Burns had to admit the thought of getting rid of Smithers' fiancée had crossed his mind initially, and for more than a few reasons… but the more he thought about it, the more he realized he couldn't do it.

Quite the opposite, he discovered, the things important to Smithers were thus important to him! So much of what he did revolved around Smithers, bringing happiness to his partner, that he couldn't bear the idea of hurting him; even indirectly. _I gave commands; then all smiles stopped together._

 _No_ , Burns thought angrily. He couldn't hurt Waylon like that.

Burns regarded Roberta with a mixture of resentment, and envy. She would have her whole lifetime to spend with his treasured companion. He, Burns, would only have a few more weeks. When she intruded on his quiet readings, he'd tried in his own way to explain things to her.

The play: _Pygmalion_.

How could see not see it? After she left, Burns had practically screamed in frustration. If she knew the story like she'd claimed, how couldn't she see that he already showed her he knew how things would end? When she refused his gift, he had half a mind to hurl it into the fire and set the hounds on her for good measure.

 _Damn you woman_ , he thought angrily, remembering. _I said you'd already won. Why did you continue to berate me so?_

Thinking back to that day fueled his rage. He grabbed the pedestal with the sea-horse sculpture, hurled it over. The Oriental rug offered no cushioning. Stone pedestal, and plaster sculpture slammed into the floor. White chalking shards exploded in all directions, leaving powdery streaks on the carpet.

He stood over the wreck of King Neptune, breathing heavily.

Burns didn't realize Smithers had come up beside him, didn't know until he felt a familiar arm wrap 'round his shoulders. Smithers' familiar scent, and stoic voice:

"I think I know what 'two' is," Smithers whispered softly.

Burns shook his head. "I don't think you do."

Smithers pulled Burns closer. "The fact that you're letting me do this says everything your words can't." He leaned in and wrapped his arms around Burns. "Nothing's ever changed for me, you old queen," he said, his humor both genuine and sad. Burns wrapped his arms over Smithers'. "It never will."

* * *

 **THEN**

The wedding of Roberta Latante and Waylon J. Smithers was a beautiful affair. In his months working at Burns Manor, Smithers had become very adept at coordinating events. At the ceremony, Smithers surprised Roberta with the key to their new home in an upcoming suburb of West Springfield.

They said their vows, their _I Do's_ , and Smithers knew he meant every word.

That night, he brought her to their new home, and carried her across the threshold. That night, he made love to her for the first time. Roberta was beautiful, and he found he could do what she needed him to. Afterwards, she fell asleep with her head on his chest. He stroked her long hair thoughtfully, thinking about how different she felt in his arms.

In the quiet of the morning, he lay awake, and contemplated his life. He'd done the proverbial " _It_." He had completed the steps he needed to take to be a man in the world. He felt pride, to be sure, but something else.

In his heart, he'd hoped his night with Roberta would change _something_ , perhaps _cure_ him of his inborn predilections.

It hadn't. Everything was wonderful, and enjoyable, and he did _love_ her without a doubt… but their intimate acts didn't change him like he hoped they would. He wondered if he could live like this for the rest of his life. He still wanted a family, he still wanted a _normal_ life. Perhaps, if he couldn't be cured, at least he could play the part before the prying eyes of society.

Smithers rolled over, careful not to wake Roberta, and let his mind drift to another place.

* * *

 **THEN**

That same night, across town and over the river, a forlorn figure stood in his great, empty house, and cursed the silence.

He wandered in a room that had been recently occupied by his dear friend. A handful of personal possessions had been left behind. Smithers wasn't completely vacating the manor, he'd still be working there until the temporary office facility was erected at the worksite.

It wasn't the same though.

Burns sat down at baby grand piano in Smithers' room, and placed his hands delicately over the keyboard. Unbidden, a melody came to his fingers. Something that had been sleeping in his memory from childhood, something he remembered his mother used to sing before he left to live with his grandfather. It was an ancient Scottish ballad known as _The Elfin Knight_.

Impossible tasks that can't be done, things that can't be had. It seemed so fitting. Burns closed his eyes, and let the sad melody flow from him.

* * *

 **THEN**

In the darkest hour, sleep eluded two men that night.


	19. Chapter 19

**THEN**

Smithers managed to balance his time between work and his new bride. The maintenance building was completed. Smithers suggested he and Burns set up a short-term office there. Since his wedding day, he and Burns hadn't spoken much. Burns had been dodgy and elusive. Whenever Smithers suggested a meeting, Burns always had some excuse to not be available. Once, he'd gone so far as to fly out of state on a purported business trip. He left Johan the job of relaying his instructions to Smithers.

As winter set in, exterior construction slowed, but the work on the facility interiors and electric infrastructure continued. Several high-tension lines were erected to carry power from the plant to Springfield and neighboring cities.

Smithers claimed a disused meeting room in the maintenance building as an office, and with some prodding, finally convinced Burns to meet him at the site.

"These quarters are positively austere," Burns remarked in disapproval.

Smithers shrugged. "I think it's important we work on site. We'll move out long before the actual employees get here."

Burns signed and sat down at a folding table next to Smithers. "We need a real desk," he remarked grumpily.

Smithers tried to lighten the mood with some old humor. "So go buy one! You're rich, aren't you?"

Burns coughed. "Excuse me, but I believe by Springfield's provincial standards, now so are you."

The two men sat for a moment, each lost in thought.

"So," Burns began hesitantly, "how's the connubial lifestyle treating you?"

Smithers shrugged. "It's nice."

"' _Nice_ '?" Burns repeated, his tone probing.

Smithers rubbed the back of his neck. "Don't make me go there, Monty."

Burns rocked back in his chair. "I just want to be sure you're happy, that's all."

"I am."

"Good."

There was another long, awkward silence. Smithers sighed, and put his left hand over Monty's.

The older man gave a start, looking down at Smithers' fingers. "You don't have your wedding ring on," he noted quietly.

Smithers nodded. "I don't wear it around you."

Burns looked away, unable to meet Smithers' eyes. He regarded the unfinished ceiling with casuistic intensity. It would really benefit from some drop tiles, or something, but beyond that, there was nothing further to distract him. He shook his head. "Don't want to bother an old man's broken heart, eh?"

Smithers shook his head. "Quite the opposite, in fact." He squeezed Burns' hand tightly. "I've never worn _that_ ring around you." He swung his feet absentmindedly. "I guess this is the first time you've noticed, eh?"

Burns nodded. "It is."

Smithers held his right hand out to Burns. On his ring finger was a simple white-gold band.

"I never take _this_ ring off," he said quietly. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small jewelry box. "I'm hoping you won't take yours off either." Smithers passed the box over to Burns, looking away shyly.

Burns opened the tiny box. Inside was a single, matching, white-gold band. He deftly lifted it out, and slid it over his right ring finger. "It's like it was made for me," he remarked.

Smithers winked, remembering the last time they'd had that exchange. "It was," he replied, eyes twinkling warmly. He gave Burns a wink; and Burns found himself resisting every urge to hug Waylon in a most undignified, if passionate, embrace.

"Married life is good," Smithers said thoughtfully. "Roberta's doing very well. She's actually pregnant, though we're not making that public knowledge yet."

Burns gave Smithers a jab in the rib. "Ah, virile youth, are you?"

Smithers laughed. "I suppose you could say that. The Smithers clan does tend towards large families. I'm hoping for a daughter. I'd have no idea how to raise a proper son."  
"Waylon, I'm sure you'd do fine."

Burns paused, admired the ring on his hand.

"There's an inscription on the inside," Smithers remarked.

Burns slipped the ring off, and held it up to the light. Inscribed were three words, a set of initials, and a date: _Forever as yours; WJS_ , and the same date as was engraved on his pocket watch. The date Waylon J. Smithers had embarked on his new life in the company of Charles Montgomery Burns.


	20. Chapter 20

**NOW**

"So," Monty said proudly, "What do you think of the new office?"

Waylon put his hands in his pockets and whistled approvingly. "You've really outdone yourself this time, Monty!"

"Pish posh! It's hardly finished yet."

The new office was huge space, with wood-paneled walls, and a crimson carpet filling most of the carpet on the floor. The vaulted ceiling curved overhead, supported by several slate colored columns. A floor-to-ceiling window faced east, looking out over the cooling towers and river. Along one wall, built-in bookshelves housed a substantial library in their own right. There was a blank space recessed in the wall. The surveillance monitors would be installed there.

A single massive desk was set in front of the window. Rather than one piece, it was joined at three angles: a center piece, a left area, and a right. It was similar to a horseshoe desk, but wider, and all straight lines. If viewed from above, it would've looked like the top half of a trapezoid, with the left and right wings angled away from the center.

"I had that specially made," Monty remarked, puffing out his chest. "One side for you, one side for me," he beckoned Smithers to follow. "Come around and take a closer look!" Monty pointed to the center section. "See, I had buttons installed. That one's for the trap door… that one releases the hounds…"

Waylon nodded approvingly. "What about the catapult?"

Monty shrugged. "I'm working on it. Apparently the lawyers are having some trouble getting it approved." He returned his focus to the desk. "Anyone who comes to see us will have to stand in that center area," Monty gestured between the two angled sides. "Ho, I wouldn't envy him. Caught between the master of the atom, and the lion of fission!"

Waylon made a claw-like gesture with his hand. "Rawr," he grinned, impishly.

Monty laughed and gave his partner a playful slap on the back. "Exactly!" He beamed, surveying their shared domain, then his face clouded over. "I know there's a lot on your mind, my dear friend, but I am glad you haven't lost your sense of humor."

Waylon shrugged. "I need to be strong for my son. And for Roberta."

"And for Roberta…" Monty echoed. "She's never far from your thoughts, is she."

"She's always on my mind."

"I wouldn't expect anything less."

Waylon sat down at his side of the desk. Monty settled into the chair at his. "Here, Waylon, I forgot to set these out," he remarked, reaching into a drawer. He got up and handed a wooden name plate to Waylon. "I had these made for us." Waylon took his and read the engraving. _W. J. Smithers. Chief Operations Officer_ ; and in smaller script underneath, _The Lion of Fission._

"I have one for me too," Monty added, pulling out a second one. _C. M. Burns. Chief Executive Officer; Master of the Atom_. He set it on his side of the desk. "Now," he drummed his hands proudly on the desk, "it's official!"

From in the corridor outside the office came the sounds of a commotion. Someone was shouting. Johan was yelling back. There was the sounds of a scuffle, then the double doors to the office flew open. A lanky young man in a business suit dodged under Johan's outstretched arms and slipped into the office.

Johan snarled something in German and coiled to tackled the man. Monty rose up, staying him with an outstretched hand. _Easy, Johan_ , he said in fluent German. _Let us see what this man brings._ Johan gave the intruder a look that could curdle milk, and stalked off into the hall, leaving the door open.

The sharp-dressed lad brushed himself off.

"Good day, Mister Burns, Mister Smithers. I heard you were looking for a vice-president to manage your plant. Well, my name's Gilbert Gunderson, and I'm your man!" He held out a resume.

Waylon took it and read over it. "He does have some impressive accomplishments," he remarked, passing it over to Monty.

The self-appointed master of the atom scanned the document. "Say, don't I remember you from a lemonade stand years ago?"

Gilbert rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "Er, it's possible. Lots of kids have lemonade stands."

"You were in charge of watching it for your brother weren't you, hmmm? Managed to bankrupt the entire thing by giving away free samples, then you drank the remaining inventory."

Gilbert started to look a bit sweaty. "I was seven years old. I made some bad choices."

Monty leapt up. "Bad choices, eh! I have no use for bad choices at my atom… plant!"

"But I've got excellent qualifications," Gilbert protested. "I'm also one of the luckiest men around."

Monty hunched his shoulders forward and lowered his head, like a bull about to charge. "Luck has nothing to do with success! An over-reliance on such tommyrot is sure to lead to carelessness. You think you're lucky? Let's see how your luck handles this!"

Monty hit a switch underneath the central desk. There was an audible click.

"Ehm, what did you just do?" Gilbert asked, apprehensively.

Monty grinned evilly. "Released the hounds." He tented his fingers. "You've got about a ten second head start."

"What!?"

In the distance came the sounds of barking and growling.

Waylon felt it time to speak up: "Mister Gunderson, you should run now."

Gilbert bolted out of the office, a pack of vicious Dobermans hot on his heels. They heard him yelling as he ran. The yells turned to screams as the gnarling of the hounds intensified.

"Well, I feel that was quite a success."

"It seemed a tad excessive to me."

"Oh don't be a spoilsport, Waylon. After all, the hounds were _your_ idea."

Waylon tried to look appalled, but failed. He smirked. "Ah, touché, Monty."

Several quiet minutes passed, then they heard the patter of canine feet coming back down the hallway. The dogs loped into the office. One of them was pawing at its mouth and making gagging noises.

"Waylon!" Monty exclaimed in alarm. "Bongo looks unwell!"

("How on earth can you tell them apart?" Waylon muttered as he crouched down in front of the dog.) "There, there, Bongo," he cooed, stroking the animal's head. "What've you got in your mouth, boy?" He carefully pried the dog's jaws open and looked into its mouth. "There's your problem, Monty," he remarked. He rolled up his shirt sleeve and bravely reached his hand into the dog's throat. "He's got something caught back here. It's fuzzy… ngh…" he pulled out a small, white sodden object.

"Well what the devil is that?" demanded Monty.

Waylon wiped the slobber off on his pants. "It appears to be one of those 'lucky rabbit's foot' things," he replied, tossing it on the desk. "Go on," he instructed the hounds, "shoo." The dogs loped off.

"Lucky rabbit's foot, eh?" Monty remarked, picking the slobbery item up distastefully. "I've never believed in such superstitious balderdash."

"Indeed. I mean, how bad could ol' Gilbert's luck really be after this? I'm sure he'll get on just fine without it." Waylon picked up the rabbit paw in a handkerchief and dropped it unceremoniously into the trash.

* * *

 **THEN**

Time seemed to move so quickly for Waylon. He barely had time to stop at catch his breath. By day, he worked out of the makeshift office at the nuclear plant, and at night he was home, looking after Roberta.

Her pregnancy was not the easiest, but it wasn't awful either. She suffered terrible nausea, and often didn't have much appetite.

 _What sounds good?_ Smithers would ask her.

She'd tell him, then he'd whip something up in the kitchen. Fortunately she didn't have too many strange requests, like pickles and ice-cream or anything disgusting like that. Through this, Smithers learned how to cook at least a few meals on his own.

Just like he'd told Burns, he never did take the ring off his right hand. Roberta never asked him about it. If she had, he would've told her he couldn't stand asymmetry, and needed to wear it to balance things out. _Everybody lies sometimes_ , he told himself. A little lie like that would never hurt anyone.

At night, he'd lie down beside her, and put his hand on her belly, waiting eagerly for the day he'd feel those little kicks she was always talking about.

Occasionally, Charlotte and her husband Alex came visiting, bringing little Robbie along. Smithers loved getting a chance to practice being a father; Charlotte and Alex were delighted to have someone else who could tend to Robbie for a spell.

The construction of the plant continued at full steam. Smithers enjoyed Burns' company during the day, and was equally happy to come home to his family at night. Occasionally, he'd meet Burns at the manor instead of the office. While they never crossed any boundaries in terms of physical intimacy, both men enjoyed the close rapport their friendship provided.

With Roberta being pregnant, intimacy was not something that appealed to her in the slightest. Smithers secretly enjoyed the respite from such things. It made it easier for him to keep a platonic relationship with Burns.

In their downtime, Burns tried to teach Smithers to play the piano, but the man apparently had no musical ability whatsoever. _That's Roberta_ , Smithers said laughing, after a particularly bad attempt at a piece written for children. _She's the musician in the family_. Smithers found himself hoping maybe the child would inherit her aptitude.

Burns never took off the ring Smithers had given him. On the nights when he found himself feeling alone, he ran his fingers over it, and remembered. Forever as always. If this was the only relationship he could have with Smithers, he reasoned, perhaps it was enough. His partner truly did seem happy as a husband and father.

Burns remembered something his grandfather had said to him. Colonel Wainwright Montgomery Burns had raised his grandson like his own son; despite the protests of Burns' parents. _Some folk are made for havin' babies, boy,_ Wainwright said in southern drawl, curling his lip in a sneer. _And some folk are made for havin' money. I raised your father wrong. He chose to babies over fortune. Good thing I did right by you! Why, if you had that mentality, what a disappointment you would've been. Disappointment, yes_ … Burns wasn't so sure he believed that anymore

Burns rubbed the ring on his finger and remembered. Sometimes, it seemed, he could still hear his grandfather's voice in his ear, encouraging Burns in his acts of malignity and despotism.

In those moments, tucked under the covers, Burns thought of Smithers: Smithers, who was neither weak, nor cruel; and could hold his own in a battle of wits. Through his hard work, he had managed to set himself up quite a comfortable financial nest-egg of his own. It was nothing compared to Burns' fortune, but it seemed more than enough for Smithers.

Burns was wild and unpredictable, yet through all his stormy moods, Smithers and his even keel always managed to navigate the sea that was Burns' whirling emotions. Despite marriage and the impending fatherhood, some things would never change. Forever as always.


	21. Chapter 21

**NOW**

Smithers showed up to work, Waylon Jr. sleeping quietly in small basket. Waylon Sr.'s worn satchel bulged with a variety of baby items. He set child and supplied down in the recently finished office, and looked up at Monty.

The expression on his face said it all.

"Oh, Waylon," Monty moaned, and came around the front of the desk. Waylon Sr. collapsed into his partner's arms, and Monty held him as tight as he possibly could. Though Waylon hardly made a sound, Monty could feel the man's shoulders shaking.

He tucked his chin over Waylon's head, and held the man to his chest. Waylon cried like he hadn't in years. All the stress, frustration and regret overflowing from his sad, hazel eyes. Monty didn't even need to ask. Clearly Roberta's treatments had not gone well. He resolved to hold Waylon for as long as it took, forever if he had to. "They're just tears," he said softly, stroking Waylon's back. "Let them fall."

After what seemed like eternity, and yet no time at all, Waylon straightened up. He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief, and blew his nose.

"Thank you, Monty," he said, the gratitude evident in his voice, "that's been building for a long time."

"I'm sure it has."

Monty stooped to gather Waylon Jr's bassinet and the lad's supplies off the floor. He slung the satchel over a shoulder, and guided Waylon Sr. to the couch across from the row of monitors. He motioned Waylon to sit down, then did likewise, setting the bassinet by Waylon's feet.

Waylon Sr. dabbed his eyes, and shook his head. "She'd been going for treatments, but doctors didn't think it was enough. She had - what did they call it? - a nervous breakdown." Waylon sat hunched over, elbows on knees. "Monty, what did I do?"

 _You did nothing wrong_ , Monty wanted to say, but the words seemed stuck in his throat. He wished he knew what to say to reassure his partner. Instead, he shook his head and asked the practical question. "Will you be bringing your son to the plant every day now?"

Waylon shook his head. Charlotte's not quite due yet, and she's still willing to help out. She had a doctor's appointment herself today, so that's why Waylon's here."

Monty took a moment to consider the child. The boy had his father's light brown hair, and that face was definitely Waylon Sr.'s. The boy was small for his age, looking younger than his seven months would indicate. A pair of glasses, with a soft strap to hold them in place rested over his face. "Glasses already, eh?" Monty mused.

"He's farsighted, just like his old man," Waylon replied with a chuckle. "That's one thing he got from me at least."

Monty peered at the baby. "Oh, I'd say he's the spiriting image of you, my man. Look at that hair!" Monty smirked. "Why, he's got so much of it."

Waylon gave Monty a shove. "Careful there," he said, a smile playing at the corners of his tear-reddened eyes.

"Well," said Monty, still staring at the sleeping child as if he'd never seen one before, "I suppose we can find a place for the little tyke here. Why don't you go put his bottles in the refrigerator." Monty gestured to a small room off their main office. It was originally designed as private meeting room, but right now they'd been using it as a storage-and-break room.

"Oh, and Waylon, I've got something else that might cheer you up!"

Waylon paused, halfway to the side room.

Burns made a little dancing motion with his fingers. "Guess who's coming to visit!"

"I don't know," Waylon replied tiredly. "Can't you just tell me?"

"Mmmm… no, I don't think I can."

Waylon sighed. "Fine. Is it the Pope?"

Monty folded his arms across his chest in mock indignation. "No, spoilsport. Fuel for the reactors. Ripe, tasty uranium for our hungry Fissionators!" He tucked a hand coyly to his mouth. "Just like what some clever little architect requested, eh?" He threw his arms wide. "Happy Valentine's Day!"

"Uranium," Waylon said, deadpan. "You gave me uranium."

Monty shrugged. "Technically, I gave it to the reactors; but close enough."

Waylon tucked his son's supplies neatly into the spare room. "And Happy Valentine's Day to you, Monty," he added with a hint of a smile. "I finally finished sending out the last letter to our newly hired team. We are fully staffed-"

"Our reactors are fueled."

Waylon rubbed his hands together in delight. "When do we start pressurizing the first circuit," he asked, all strife momentarily forgotten. He wanted to be there when the reactors were brought online.

Monty smiled proudly. "Filling and pressurizing as we speak! In about half an hour or so, I'll fire up the primary pumps for the initial flow tests." Burns twirled a hand and gave a detailed litany of all the objectives he had lined up for the day.

"Monty," Waylon said in surprise, "those were my projects!"

"Balderdash," Monty said with a laugh. "It's the least I can do to help out an old friend in his time of need. Relax and take it easy today. Let old Monty handle that scutwork for you, eh?" He looked into the bassinet and wrinkled his brow. "You'll have enough on your plate once the wee chap wakes up. I'm sure I know how to prime the an old 'atom mill,' eh Waylon?"

* * *

 **THE** ** _FINAL_** **THEN**

Smithers tried not to cry out as Roberta squeezed her hand with all her strength. He had to be strong for her. He coaxed and encouraged, as she gritted her teeth. _You can do it_ , he cheered, almost there!

With a final grunt and a gasp Roberta bore down amid cheer from Smithers and the attending nurse. The doctor said nothing, the lower half of his face obscured by a mask, but his eyes crinkled warmly. _Congratulations, Mrs. Smithers_ , he said, _pulling the mask down around his neck. It's a boy!_

The next day, Smithers bounded into the impromptu office he and Burns shared, his face radiant with delight. He could hardly contain himself. "Monty," he yelled, "Monty!"

"Good lord, man, have you gone daft? You're prancing and mincing like a complete buffoon. Sit down and be still!"

"Oh, I couldn't if I tried," Smithers replied, trembling with excitement. "Guess what?"

"I couldn't imagine," replied Burns abstractedly, not looking up from his papers.

Smithers grabbed the man by the shoulders and beamed radiantly. "I'm a _dad_!" He whooped, doing a giddy half dance. Burns found himself being dragged from his chair and caught along for the ride. He tried to politely detach himself from Smithers' grasp.

"That's all very well and good, my dear man," Burns replied, suppressing a smile, and brushing off his coat. "I dare say I'll be expecting the time-honored custom of being presented with a barrage of photos to commemorate each trivial milestone?"

Smithers sat down on the desk and laughed. "No," he said mirthfully, "I would _never_ subject _you_ to such an offense."

"Smart man," replied Burns, allowing his face to show a hint of amusement.

"I did bring one though." Smithers reached into his wallet. "Look. It was taken just after he was born." He passed the small photo over to Burns.

Burns took a pair of reading glasses off the desk and slipped them on. He peered at the photo, squinting thoughtfully.

"Well," Smithers asked, bouncing up and down on his heels.

"He's all red and wrinkly," Burns remarked carefully. "But I'm sure he'll pink up nicely." He handed the photo back to Smithers. "Have you decided on a name, then?"

Smithers nodded. "Roberta and I had those all picked out before he was born. Mary for a girl, James for a boy."

Burns clucked his tongue. "So little James Smithers, eh?"

Smithers rubbed the back of his neck and blushed. "Actually, Roberta changed her mind and didn't tell me. She named him Waylon Joseph… Junior." He rubbed a hand over his moustache, feeling his cheeks redden.

Burns smiled. "Like his father, eh?"

"When the nurse asked her what name to put on the certificate, she blurted that out before I could stop her." He looked both proud and bashful at the same time.

Burns tented his fingers and regarded Smithers levelly. "It's a good name," he nodded. "I approve."

In the July afternoon, just days after Waylon Jr.'s birth, the Smithers family sat in the grass of their back yard as the sun dipped slowly towards the west. Smithers held Waylon Jr. in the crook of his left arm while a tired but content Roberta coiled around his side. She was reading the child a story, though not one that might typically be expected. Roberta did have a great love for the classics. She was reading the babe a Shakespearian play, doing the various voices as she went.

Smithers had laughed.

"'Set him before me; let me see his face,'" she quoted with the stately tones of a Roman emperor. "Then sneaky Cassius said 'Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Caesar.'" Again in the tone of the emperor she read: " 'What say'st thou to me now? Speak once again.'" Roberta ticked one of Waylon Jr.'s tiny hands. "And the Soothsayer said 'Beware the Ides of March!'"

Smithers chuckled and gently lifted the book out of her hands. "Perhaps we could start him on something a bit more cheerful. _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ perhaps? I know you want the boy to be familiar with the classics, but Julius Caesar has such a grim ending."

Roberta laughed, and made a snuffling sound with her nose against her son's neck. The tiny baby wiggled and touched her face. "Don't worry Waylon. He doesn't even know what it means," she said playfully, dancing her fingers on Waylon Jr.'s little chest. "He just likes the rhythm. 'Beware the Ides of March,'" she repeated, tapping her fingers in time to the words.

Waylon Jr. wiggled his tiny clenched hands, and nestled in deeper against his father's chest.

 _Beware the Ides of March._


	22. Chapter 22

**NOW**

"Reactors One and Two are primed," the lead reactor manager announced, watching the control panels carefully. In the main control room located in an area designated as Sector 6-F, spaced between the two reactor containment structures.

The assembled team stood quietly. In addition to the manager, a team of technicians, a safety inspector, and a commissioner from the Atomic Energy Commission waited silently. C. Montgomery Burns stood beside the inspector, while Waylon Smithers sat at a primary control panel. The consoles curved around the entire perimeter of the room, leaving an island workstation at the center. Physical log books manuals were tucked neatly beneath the island.

A good two thirds of the display monitors and controls were dark. They would come to life when the plant started distributing electrical energy from the generators.

"Bring circuits One through Three online," the commissioner instructed.

Technicians' fingers danced over various panels.

There was a faint thrumming sound in the walls as pumps to the steam turbines came online and started moving the water. The pressurized heavy water circled through the Primary Circuit, passing around the core, then through pipes in the steam generator tank

After Monty had initialized the Primary Circuit the other week, all the necessary tests had been run. Everything functioned exactly as it was supposed to. Independently, Monty had also overseen the priming of the Secondary Circuit, the one that moved water through the generators. The Secondary had likewise gone through a thorough pre-operations check, and passed with flying colors.

The Tertiary Circuit, which routed the cooling water to and from the towers, passed every pre-operation evaluation, but the true test would come when it cooled the heated steam from the Secondary. All preliminary data showed they could expect the rapid heat dissipation required.

Monty stood next to the inspector, his hands fingers clenching and releasing nervously. He fondled the ring on his right hand with his thumb absent-mindedly. Waylon Smithers sat, his hands splayed delicately out over a series of switches. His face was the very picture of composure.

Lights blinked, and information was displayed on the dials. Just as the pre-operations tests last week had shown, every system was functioning properly.

"Reactors One and Two have passed pre-initialization tests," a technician announced.

The commissioner nodded. He turned to Waylon. "Raise the control rods for One and Two at a ratio of one to fifty-seven, Waylon."

Waylon's hands entered in a series of numbers via a keypad, then removed a pin from a toggle switch. He flipped the switch, then placed his hands on a pair of dual control levers. Slowly, he raised them upward.

There was an additional change in the vibrations of the plant as in the reactor core, forty smooth silver-iridium-cadmium rods glided upward by a fraction. The video monitors showed the silent motion.

Without the rods to absorb the neutrons, the sleeping reactors came silently to life.

The needles on several indicators slowly crept upward. They stabilized a tiny margin above zero.

Monty had stopped fidgeting, and stood perfectly still. He realized he was holding his breath.

"One to thirty-three," the commissioner requested, and Waylon silently obeyed.

The needles moved about a quarter of the way across the indicators, and leveled out.

"Reports," the commissioner barked at the technicians.

"Reactors One and Two holding steady at thirty-three percent," came the reply from a man in a lab coat. He hit a small switch. A printer buzzed to life, lines of text rolling out. The technician reread the figures, and handed them to the safety inspector. The inspector nodded, then passed them finally up to the commissioner.

The commissioner cracked his knuckles. "Bring us to seventy-eight," he instructed Waylon.

The needles leapt across the displays, resting three quarters of the way across.

Monty noticed a slightly different sound to the plant, an almost imperceptible hiss of steam being produced and piped through to the generators. The turbines were currently locked down, preventing any actual electricity from being produced. He realized Waylon was watching him, his face impassive. He gave Waylon a reassuring wink, and hoped nobody noticed.

Waylon gave an imperceptible nod, and unobtrusively put his right hand to his chin. Monty couldn't help but notice the twinkle of white gold around Waylon's ring finger.

* * *

 **NOW**

The reactors had held steady at seventy-eight percent for the several days required. The three water circuits worked exactly as designed. Steam rose from the massive cooling towers, employees came and went on their scheduled shifts.

The nuclear plant required around the clock monitoring.

Waylon Smithers spent a great deal of his time at his personal office, located near the main control room, in a complex situated between the two massive containment structures. February came and went, the generators were brought online, and finally the plant was in full operation. That grey morning, Monty expressed his annoyance at the amount of time the final steps had taken. He ranted most vehemently to Waylon, who simply shrugged. "You know what they say about Rome," he remarked.

"What? That it was burned by an ambitious madman?"

"Ah, no. That it wasn't built in a day."

Monty folded his arms across his chest. "Well it burned in one."

Waylon glared reproachfully at his partner. "What's got you in such a mood? We're live, we're generating electricity, what more could you possibly want?"

Burns grumbled something.

Waylon shrugged. "I know what could cheer us both up. Alex and Charlotte are watching Waylon today. Let's hit the town, get dinner… (drown our sorrows)" he added under his breath.

"We have a duty to this plant and our employees!" Monty started to object, but Waylon put a hand on the man's shoulder.

"We have a duty to ourselves as well," he chided softly. "When was the last time we shared dinner together? We see each other every day, but when was the last time we truly talked?"

Monty hung his head and nodded. "You're right, of course," he admitted.

Waylon took Monty's hands. "So join me! Let me formally invite you out for an evening about town!"

Montgomery Burns found himself blushing, unable to meet Waylon's eyes. "Oh, all right," he relented, "For old time's sake."

That night, after dinner, they drove along the Springfield River, stopping up at the dam. From there they looked down at the power plant, sparkling like a diamond in the velvet night. Monty found Waylon's arms around his waist, and did not resist. He couldn't if he wanted to.

Under the dark night, the two men found comfort in each other; the sort neither had known in a long time.

Monty had offered to drive Waylon back the plant to get his car, but the younger man refused. Waylon climbed into the driver's seat and piloted the Bentley along familiar roads to Mammon Lane. He pulled to a stop at the front steps of the manor, stepping out first to open Monty's door. Arm in arm, they strode up the steps. Waylon ordered Johan to build a crackling fire in Monty's master bedroom. There they talked over a bottle of cognac into long into the night.

Finally, sleep overtook them both.

The last thing either man remembered was dropping into a most restful slumber in the arms of his beloved.

* * *

 **NOW**

Sitting at his desk in his private office, Waylon Smithers angrily threw another piece of paper into the trash. He'd been trying to find the right words all morning. He realized, after the other night, that he couldn't keep doing this.

He remembered the look of scorn on Charlotte and Alex's face when he picked up his son the next morning.

He'd been expected back after work. He hadn't called, he hadn't shown up. Charlotte was furious. _I don't know what you're playing at, Waylon,_ she screamed in his face _, but you have an obligation to your wife… and especially to your son! You think you can just stay out all night, probably in the arms of some cheap whore!_ She stomped her foot, _I have half a mind to tell you 'no,' you can't have him back. He's better off without you!_

It was Alex, stoic Alex who intervened. He took Charlotte by the arm, and guided her away into the living room, then returned to the front door. _Now Wally_ , he began slowly, _I don't profess to know what's going on in your head, and I don't want to know what you do in your spare time, but she's right. Roberta or no Roberta, you can't do things like this. It isn't fair to us, and it isn't fair to your son._

With that, Alex handed Waylon Jr. into the arms of his shame-faced father, and shut the door.

Waylon Smithers felt the tears start to form. He turned, hurrying back to his maroon station wagon and tucking his child into the car seat. Once on the road, he wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

Alex was right.

He, Waylon Joseph Smithers, was living a lie. With a heavy heart, he drove to the nuclear plant and showed the guard his identification badge. The man raised the gate, and Smithers drove to his assigned parking spot, right in front of the main office complex.

Ordinarily, he'd go up to the office he shared with Monty, but today he just wanted to get to work. Satchel full of Waylon Jr.'s supplies, he walked quietly to the reactor control complex, let himself into his private office, and shut the door.

He set Waylon Jr. in the little playpen by his desk, and reviewed the day's reports.

Everything was in order. Good, he thought blankly. At least something's going right.

He didn't regret his time with Monty the night before. He merely regretted the lie. He grabbed a pencil off his desk and started writing. _Dear Roberta_ , the letter began, _I cannot keep living like this_ \- Too self-depreciating. He crumpled the letter up and threw it into the trash.

Several hours later he was no closer to the words he wanted to find, but his trashcan was approaching capacity. He hadn't even bothered to glance at the clock.


	23. Chapter 23

**THE FINAL NOW**

Monty Burns looked at the clock above the door to his office. It was already past five in the afternoon, and he hadn't seen Smithers all day.

He crossed to the other window and looked out across the parking lot.

Smithers' little red car was still there, parked in its spot next to his. Peculiar, he thought, and headed out to see what was up.

* * *

Deep in the bowels of Reactor Two, something was amiss. The rods had been raised to full height by one of the morning technicians during a drill, but somehow, they failed to lower after the test. The mistake had not been recorded by the monitors. Slowly, the needle of the power crept unnoticed towards the red… then beyond.

Montgomery Burns had almost made it to Waylon's office when all hell broke loose.

* * *

Every light in the plant dimmed, then surged, bathing the hallways in a hyper-florescent brightness before breakers tripped and everything went dark.

Emergency lights, powered by batteries were the first to come on. Seconds later the red warning lights in their shielded housings flashed to life, bathing the corridors in bloody, lurid tones. A klaxon began to blare with strident urgency.

Monty Burns ran.

He nearly collided with Waylon who had emerged from his office, son in his arms.

"Will you put that baby down," Monty screamed wildly, "There's something wrong with the reactor core!"

Waylon Sr. shoved his son into Monty's arms and raced to the containment unit. He skidded to a halt outside the heavy lead-lined hatch and grasped the wheel-lock in his bare hands.

Monty realized what the man was about to do.

"No," he screamed, grabbing Waylon by the collar of his lab coat. "It could be filled with atoms and steam and other nuclear brickabrack!"

Waylon shrugged himself free of his coat and turned to face Monty.

"If this reactor blows, the whole town in doomed… including my son." With that, he opened the hatch, and stepped in.

* * *

Waylon gasped, sucking in air. It had a distinct metallic taste that coated his tongue. His eyes started to burn and his skin prickled. He looked across the room, over the core, and saw the cooling rods suspended above their sheaths. Unbound from absorption, the core was overheating at an alarming rate.

There was high-pitched whining in his ears. His vision was starting to grow dim. He saw the lowering mechanism jammed, heard the rotors grinding. He felt his body begin to betray him.

Somehow he managed to stagger, half-blind, to the manual over-ride. With the last of his willpower, he slammed his hand on the kill switch.

Without power, the control rod motor slammed to a halt. Gravity took effect. The control rods fell silently dropped the core.

Waylon turned to the door, or tried to. The air felt too thick to breath. He saw Monty and Waylon Jr.'s faces framed in the shielded round window, and reached for them. The world grew dim, tracers of light seemed to cross his field of vision. Waylon Jr. was gone now. It was just Monty's face, framed by darkness, and an odd halo of light.

Waylon tried to speak, but the world went dark. He never felt the impact when he hit the floor. He felt a sudden pain ripping through his body like nothing he'd ever known… then, blissfully, he felt peace. His last thought, before his spirit left, was of how unfathomably beautiful his life had been. It was perhaps a strange last think to think… or perhaps, it wasn't so strange at all.


	24. Chapter 24

**AFTER**

Charles Montgomery Burns, Master of the merciless Atom stood looking out his window at the cooling towers and river beyond. A single month and a day since he 'gave' Waylon a gift of uranium on the holiday of St. Valentine, and now his beloved was dead. Curse this wretched day!

Montgomery Burns tried to be strong, tried not to let emotion show upon his face.

Johan, silent as always, stood in the center of the office.

Burns turns, and regarded the man slowly. "That body at the core of Reactor Two; lead up, and bring the body to me." He couldn't bring himself to say his beloved's name.

Johan nodded impassively. "Yes, Herr Burns."

Burns gestured out across the parking lot. "And that small red station wagon down there? Have it crushed and melted down. I don't want as much as a single scrap of cloth to be recognizable."

"Yes, Herr Burns." Johan slipped out, closing the door silently behind him.

The only thing I want remaining, Burns thought sullenly, is this child. He looked at the young toddler sleeping in the nest of his father's lab coat. Smithers' satchel, and Waylon Jr.'s formula were by the fridge in the second room.

Quietly, Burns knelt down beside the small, sleeping child. Every so gently, he lifted the sleeping babe up, still wrapped in the soft leather coat, and carried him into the second room next to the lad's supplies. He didn't need the boy bearing witness to what would come next.

It hardly took any time for Johan to retrieve Smithers' body. No one saw him, or if they did, one icy glare from the intimidating man was enough to make them look away. He ported Smithers' body in a fireman's carry, and brought the remains back to the office Smithers once upon a time had shared in life.

Johan pushed open the door, and kicked it shut behind him.

Burns gestured to the couch next to his stuffed and mounted polar bear. "Put that thing there," he said, trying to keep any emotion from showing in his voice.

Johan dropped Smithers' body on the couch.

"Now get the hell out," snarled Burns acidly.

Johan left, closing the door behind him. Once he was gone, Burns crossed the room, locked the door, and drew the curtains across the high-arched window. He walked over to the couch, mutely taking everything all in.

Johan had tossed Smithers unceremoniously off his shoulders. Burns, at a loss for what else he could do, pulled the man into a seated position, and sat down next to him. He put his head against Smithers' lifeless chest. There was no familiar heartbeat, no soft rise with each breath. The man's body was still and growing cold.

Burns snuggled up under his partner's limp arm, and threw his arms around Smithers' waist. There, in the dark, he cried like he had never cried before. His tears ran salty and bitter down his cheeks, soaking Smithers' shirt. Burns felt a pain in his chest, as if every organ was being pulled out. _Am I dying?_ he asked soundlessly. _If I am, please let me be with Waylon again_. He buried his face against Smithers' cool chest.

He probably would've remained like that for hours, if there hadn't been a soft rapping at the door.

Burns could recognize Johan's polite but insistent knock anywhere.

 _Devil take him_ , Burns felt a painful rage surge up. _I told him to leave me alone!_ He grabbed a letter-opener off the desk, and stormed to the door. With a snarl, he threw it wide open.

It was indeed Johan standing there, a manila envelope in his hand.

He walked past Burns, completely unimpressed by the knife, and shut the door.

Burns slashed the air warningly. "I thought I told you to get the hell out."

Johan gave a half bow. "Indeed you did, Herr Burns, but I thought you ought read this before you," he glanced at Smithers' body, "do anything further."

"What the devil is this!?" Burns snarled.

Johan's face was as expressionless as always, but his icy eyes shone with a knowing look. "Before he moved out, Herr Smithers asked me to take a letter for him." Johan offered the envelope to Burns, who snatched it away. "He gave me strict instructions to keep this, unless anything ever happened to him. In which case, I was to deliver it to you." Johan gave a bow again. "I have fulfilled his last request. _Gute Nacht_ , Herr Burns."

Johan let himself out.

Burns sat down on the couch. He slit the envelope open, and pulled out a small stack of papers. There was a cover letter, which he read first.

 _My Dearest Monty,_

 _I don't know what circumstances have come to place this in your hands; but know I'm deeply sorry for it. Before I go any further, let me first tell you I've never known love such as that which I have for you. If life had been different, I would've gladly spent the rest of my days with you. Alas, life doesn't always go the way we might want. Nonetheless, please hear me out._

 _Inside this envelope you will find my last Will and Testament, but when you read it you will see not everything is accounted for. You see, I could never openly leave things to you, Roberta would not understand, but there are a few of my most cherished possessions I want you to hold on to. I know you won't give them away, or pawn then for a few paltry dollars._

 _The handsome watch you gave me, a gift of the heart which I will never be able to repay you for, is yours as well. Please keep it safe, and in time, I want you to give it to my son when he's older. I can't say how old he need be; I trust you to know when the time is right._

 _Everything I've left at Burns Manor is yours now. If it's there, then it is yours to do with as you chose._

 _I have taken the liberty of naming you Guardian of Waylon Joseph Smithers Junior. Everything has already been set up with the courts. If Roberta does not recover, and Alex and Charlotte fall unwell, you, as my son's Godfather will be granted watch over his care. In this manner too, I've done my best to ensured there will be no way Roberta, Charlotte, Alex, nor anyone else can ban you from visiting him if you so choose._

 _I hope you do. He could learn much from you._

 _The rest of my Will is fairly straight forward. I've set up a trust fund for Roberta and Waylon, to be paid out slowly and provide for them in the event of my death._

 _To keep matters within the family, I've appointed Alex as my Executor. I'm sure you understand why I must._

 _Please keep the ring I gave you. Whenever you feel alone in this uncertain world remember that I am watching over you. Do not mourn for me, death is but one day in a man's life. Instead, remember all the days we did have together. Those are what matter most._

 _Forever as always, with love undying,_

 _Yours: Waylon_.

Behind the letter was a poem. Burns took it out. It was untitled.

 _When I am dear my dearest,_

 _Sing no sad songs for me;_

 _Plant thou no roses at my head,_

 _Nor shady cypress tree:_

 _Be the green grass above me_

 _With showers and dewdrops wet;_

 _And if thou wilt, remember,_

 _And if thou wilt, forget._

 _I shall not see the shadows,_

 _I shall not feel the rain;_

 _I shall not hear the nightingale_

 _Sing on, as if in pain:_

 _And dreaming through the twilight_

 _That doth not rise nor set,_

 _Haply I may remember,_

 _And haply may forget._

 _\- Christina Rossetti (1830 - 1894)_

* * *

 **AFTER**

Johan shook his head. The lawyer stood beside him.

Burns clutched the air in frustration. "What the devil do you mean the boy and his mother will be broke." Burns pointed a finger, claw-like at his lawyer: "It's in Waylon's will. A trust fund explicitly for them. You say 'no'? Explain that to me!" His lips curled wolfishly.

The lawyer stepped forward. "Mister Burns, as you know, in our state it takes seven years before a person can be declared legally dead. Unfortunately, that means until Mister Smithers is proven to be dead this will cannot be executed. In fact, until that seven year period has expired, nothing in here can be acted upon."

Burns coiled like a predator. "You are telling me I cannot even see the boy!?"

"Not without the mother's explicit permission, no."

Burns made a feral sound, somewhere between a curse and snarl. He threw his hands in the air. "What then? Am I to suffer the indignity of not even watching my best friend's son grow? Watching them struggle to make ends meet while all the while knowing his father would never have wanted it that way!? Bah, there must be some way around this!"

The lawyer shook his head. "I'm afraid, sir, the courts would never yield on this."

Burns knotted his fingers in his hair and whirled about the room, his expression tortured.

Johan leaned in, and whispered something to the lawyer. The other man nodded.

"Mister Burns, sir," the lawyer began, interrupting Burns' anguish.

"What," snapped Burns, angrily.

"You could set up a trust fund, sir. Something to make sure the Smithers family is taken care of. We can route it through so many channels they won't be able to trace it to you."

Burns clasped his hands. "Can you make it look like it's coming from Waylon?"

The lawyer and Johan nodded. "Yes," replied the lawyer, "but that will give evidence to support the idea that Mister Smithers is still alive. Until he's declared dead, his last wishes cannot be honored."

 _So_ , Burns thought sullenly. _I can give them cause for hope, and sign away any chance of seeing the boy again… or I can leave them with no hope, but be able to partake in the boy's life._

Burns waved his hand. "Set up that fund, make sure they have enough to live comfortably. Send it to the mother, with explicit instructions that it go to care for her and the boy." He folded his hands behind his back. "Now leave me."


	25. Chapter 25

**AFTER**

There was a loud crashing sound from at the gates outside Burns Manor. "What the devil is that ruckus!" Burns growled, looking up from his morning breakfast. Johan strode out onto the front balcony and looked down. A grey sedan had rammed the gates, bending them aside, and roared up the driveway. It screeched to a halt outside the main steps.

Two women got out. The driver wore her red hair pinned back. She rushed to the passenger side to open the door, but the figure inside waved her away. The passenger was wearing a dark colored shawl over her head and shoulders. She was painfully thin.

As Johan watched, the thin woman pushed the cloth back from her face and stared up at Burns Manor with a look of pure malevolence. It was the pained and drawn face of Mrs. Roberta Smithers.

Johan saw the unyielding determination in her eyes. "Oh no," he muttered, hastily ducking away from the window.

"What was that," Burns demanded, looking up.

"Mrs. Smithers is here."

Burns felt his blood go cold. "Oh no…" he whispered.

* * *

 **AFTER**

Roberta pounded her fist on the front door. "Open up," she bellowed, Charlotte standing behind worriedly. "Come out, you bastard, you coward!"  
Burns walked with determination to the front door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Johan's finger hovering above a button labeled The Hounds. Burns hastily shook his head and drew a finger across his throat.

Straightening his tie, he opened the front door wide.

Gaunt and angry, Roberta flew into the entryway like a storm. Though her cheeks were sunken in, her eyes burned like two dark lumps of coal ember. "Where is he," she hissed, looking first left, then right.

Burns put on his most blasé face, and hoped the expression worked.

"If you're referring to Mister Smithers, he is quite patently not here."

Roberta had a mad gleam to her eye. She continued to swing her head from side to side, looking. "Waylon!" she screamed. "Waylon! Get down here!" Charlotte grabbed Roberta's arm protectively.

Burns narrowed his eyes. "You may tear this entire house apart, Roberta, but you won't find him." He felt his chest begin to tighten. _Composure_ , he admonished himself. _Don't lose it now, Monty_. He took a shuddering breath and threw his arms wide, eyes starting to fill with unshed tears. "He's _gone_ , Roberta! And he's _never coming back!_ "

Mrs. Roberta Smithers hunched her shoulders menacingly and regarded Burns with a look of barely restrained fury. Their eyes met, and something in her face softened almost imperceptibly.

"The funny thing is, old monster… I actually believe you."

She spun on her heel, pulling her shawl tighter around her body, and stalked to the door.

Charlotte paused and looked back over her shoulder. "I'm sorry about your gate," she began. "We'll pay for that."

Burns waved his hand sadly, dismissively. "Don't worry about it, I'll tend to that. It happens more than you'd expect."

Charlotte gave him an inscrutable expression, then turned and followed Roberta to the car.


	26. Chapter 26

**AND FINALLY...**

Burns had done some slight redecorating to his office at the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant in the nearly two decades following the death of his partner.

Gone was the custom desk he and Waylon Smithers once shared. Instead, he'd replaced it with an oversized mahogany hulk. The various control panels from the old desk had been concealed in the new one. Hounds, the trap door, even the catapult; plus a few other nasty surprises he'd added over the years.

He was finishing the last round of interviews for a new assistant. After nearly fifty years of loyal service, Johan had finally decided to retire. Burns wasn't quite sure what the man planned to do with his remaining years. He'd muttered something about returning to the fatherland to raise bees. Burns sighed, and wished him well.

Where the hell was the final applicant? Burns drummed his fingers and looked at the clock. One minute late… two…

There came a tentative knock at the door. "Enter," Burns ordered.

A side opened, and a young man slipped in, closing it carefully behind him. He had wavy, mouse grey hair; and his bespectacled countenance was painfully familiar. Burns leapt to his feet and nearly spat out his coffee in shock. He swallowed quickly, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I'm here about the position as executive assistant," the man said rather timidly, crossing to the desk and offering a hand. "Waylon Smithers, sir."

Burns stood still, not shaking the lad's hand.

After holding it out a second longer, Smithers dropped it, a mildly hurt look on his face. He looked Burns straight in the eye.

 _A bit taller than his father_ , Burns thought to himself. _But he has the same eyes_. Burns shook his head. _No. No_ …

"… Get… out," he whispered reedily, with vehement intensity.

The young Smithers pulled his satchel close to his chest. "Sir…" he asked plaintively.

Burns lowered his head, his eyes slits. "No interview for you. Get out. _Now!_ "

The young man looked as if he'd been slapped. He dropped his head, and bolted out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

Burns collapsed into his massive chair and put his head in his hands. _Damn him_ … he cursed silently _. …And damn me!_ He picked up the phone on his desk and entered the extension for the Human Resource Department. "That Smithers fellow? Yes. We're not hiring him."

"Why not?" asked the voice of his HR director. "He has the best credentials of all our applicants. Why his father himself helped build the plant."

"Not him!" Burns screamed into the phone. "Not one more word! Shred his application and throw the pieces into the incinerator. Dump the ashes in the river. Then drain and dredge the river for all I care! _Never him!_ " He slammed the receiver down, ending the call.

That night, back at his manor, Burns found sleep escaping him. He walked from the empty residential wing and found himself traveling up the flight of stairs to a gallery he called the Hall of Patriots. He paused, for a moment in front of a pair of large, deep green curtain. He threw them aside, and looked up into the painted face of his beloved friend and partner. Larger than life, the artist had captured Waylon's details down the very twinkle of mirth that hid, never too deeply, behind Waylon's hazel eyes.

The placard beside the painting read: "Waylon Joseph Smithers. Lion of Fission, Savior of Springfield, Master of my Heart.

Burns gazed up into the unblinking eyes of the portrait, remembering.

"He looks at me the way you did," Burns muttered softly. "I can't have him mooning about my plant like some lovelorn puppy. I won't stand for it. Surely you can understand?"

Burns put his head on the wall beside the painting. "I can't risk losing him too. He's your son. What if I can't save him either?"

A soft breeze seemed to blow through the hall. It ruffled Burns' hair, and caressed his cheek. Unbidden, words came into his mind. Burns looked up, and nodded. He knew what he had to do.

Though it was nearly ten o'clock at night, he pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket, sat down by his phone, and dialed the number.

"Hello," a quizzical voice answered.

"Ahoy hoy; Waylon Smithers?"

"Speaking."

"It's Monty… er, Mister Burns. I wanted to tell you, lad, you've got the job. I'll expect you bright and early tomorrow."

He hung up, and absentmindedly ran his fingers over the well-worn white gold band he kept on a chain around his neck. He dressed for bed, and slid under the covers, drawing them up about his chin.

 _In every tomorrow, the promise of the future. Forever as always, yours._

 **THE END**


	27. Author's Notes

**Author's Notes – A Dissection of Nuclear Attraction.**

A few folk have commented privately to me on the nature of Nuclear Attraction; how they feel like it has layers to it. That was my intent. I will admit I wound up being influenced by some of the classic Gothic literature I've always loved. I wasn't thinking of these things when I started writing. As I progressed with the story, it became deliberate.

I included things I found myself hoping my reader might actually -miss!- rather than catch. Why? Well, I suppose I, like Burns, prefer to play my cards close to my chest. It's fun to have layers. I prefer to let my Readers come to their own conclusions. It's more entertaining that way. It that scene really about foxhunting, or is it an extended metaphor?

A few people have commented about Roberta. Well, I definitely didn't want to create a "mary sue" character, or in theatre terms: "a prop that eats." I wanted her to have her own personality. I didn't have anything specifically in mind when I started writing her, other than my notes of a physical description and a few basic traits.

Roberta became an almost prophetic character, though the profundity of her remarks passes unnoticed by the other characters, including herself. "Now I have become Death, the destroyer of worlds." Well, I'm sure most people will think about J. Robert Oppenheimer, the gent known for being one of the fathers of the atomic bomb. Clearly a nuclear reference to Burns, and Roberta's fears of nuclear weapons, right?

Well, Oppenheimer did uttered those words after the first atomic bomb test detonation in 1945, but he wasn't who I had in mind. Roberta was quoting the _Bhagavad Gita_ , written in between the 4th century BC, and the 2nd century AD. It is considered a core text to Hinduism, but like many religious texts, it is as much a discussion of ethics, and moral values. The god, Vishnu, is attempting to convince Prince Arjuna to fulfil his duties. In doing this, he takes on his divine form, and utters the line: "Now I have become Death, the destroyer of worlds." Ironically, Vishnu is not the destroyer, but the maintainer, the protector. Could Burns be seen as much as a protector in this tale? I'm sure some could argue yes.

There's also that little "Beware the Ides of March" thing. What day does the uranium arrive? Valentine's Day. Smithers Sr. gives the ultimate sacrifice a month and a day later. What day is that? Well, I'll let my Readers do the math. Was that deliberate? Absolutely.

There are at least two references to " _My Last Duchess_ ," a poem by Robert Browning, and perhaps one of the best pieces of Gothic poetry around in my opinion. I think the most obvious is Burns' use of quotes, attempting to suggest something. Again, I'll leave it to Readers to take from those moments what they will

Of course there are open nods to _Pygmalion_ ; and more subtle bows to _Jane Eyre_ as well. I chose literature from a time-period not too far before Burns was born. Depending on what you hear the show, he was born either in 1890, or 1881. I went with the earlier date.

I see a good deal of Edward Fairfax Rochester's angst in Burns. As I watched the scenes unfolding before I started to write, I could easily see Burns saying something like this: _"I am not a gentle-tempered man — you forget that: I am not long- enduring; I am not cool and dispassionate. Out of pity to me and yourself, put your finger on my pulse, feel how it throbs, and — beware!"_

Or upon Smithers' death: _"One instant... Give one glance to my horrible life when you are gone. All happiness will be torn away with you. What then is left? ...As well might you refer me to some corpse in yonder churchyard. What shall I do…? Where turn for a companion and for some hope?"_

Ultimately, I wound up writing this story hoping that no one would emerge the true protagonist, a villain, or a victim. I hoped to portray each of the main leads, Roberta, Smithers Sr. and of course Burns, as complex people with their own strengths and flaws.

I'm fairly sure Roberta ultimately has the potential for a drinking problem, or at least binge-drinking episodes. I also am inclined to believe she's got a talent for music and literature. Being relegated to typing school seems a waste of her talents, but in the 1950s, there weren't many career choices for women. That part about electroshock therapy to treat her condition? That's all true to the times. Heck, the book Smithers Sr. refers to IS an actual book from that era, and it puts the blame of post-partum depression solely on the woman's shoulders. Treatment for such a disease WAS very often electroshock therapy. How grateful we should all be that modern medicine no longer blames the woman's character for suffering very real diseases such as postpartum depression.

I almost picture Roberta a bit like Waylon Jr.'s wife from the show. Although she was only featured briefly in a flashback, I can picture Waylon Jr. to be the sort who might marry a woman similar in looks and personality to that of his mother.

So, that's just a few of my thoughts in closing. Interestingly enough, the character I found myself most intrigued by, towards the end, was Roberta. I wondered what happened to her. We can surmise that eventually she remarries, and moves on with her life. What about the dynamic between Roberta and her son, Waylon Jr.? I must admit, I'm curious there. Perhaps it's something I'll explore someday; or maybe not.

Regardless, I hope you liked "Nuclear Attraction." Please feel free to toss me your comments and critiques. I'm not easily ruffled. If you see a typo, point it out. If you really like (or hate) something, please share, and tell me why. Feedback's part of what makes fanfic great, I think. My gentle Readers are already well acquainted with most of the characters; and it is the Reader, my fellow -fan!- for whom I write.

Thanks for reading!

~ Muse


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